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I 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
N 
 
 i 
 
The Humbler Poets 
 
 A COLLECTION OF 
 
 NEWSPAPER AND PERIODICAL VERSE 
 
 1870 TO i88j 
 
 By SLASON THOMPSON 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer. 
 Or tears from the eyelids start. 
 
 Longfellow 
 
 CHICAGO 
 
 JANSEN, McCLURG, AND COMPANY 
 
 1886 
 
^s 
 
 ■--^ 2. 
 
 r 
 c-l 
 
 Copyright, 
 
 By Jansen, McClurg, & Co. 
 
 A.D. 1885. 
 
 IGiCC? 
 
EXPLANATORY. 
 
 IT has been said that "he is no common benefactor 
 who shrewdly gathers from the world's manifold 
 literature its words of finest wit and maturest wis- 
 dom for our entertainment, instruction, and inspiration." 
 Rut it is not well at all times to partake of the richest 
 dishes or to drink the rarest wines. The finest wit and 
 the maturest wisdom may be read too oft. There come 
 hours to every lover of poetry when he wishes for "some 
 simple and heart-felt lay," something that shall speak 
 from out a mind feeling the every-day cares of life amid 
 the multitude, and not from the heights to which the 
 masters "proudly stooped " It was this feeling that, 
 some fifteen years ago, led me, a prose-thinker, to begin 
 collecting from newspapers and the ephemeral literature 
 of the day such verses as suited my mood, or which 
 seemed the utterance of a soul that had put its thoughts 
 into song. Upon the fly-leaf of my first scrap-book, 
 surrounded by some now faded natural leaves of oak, 
 maple, bilberry, and Virginia creeper, and two withered 
 sprays of trailing arbutus, I find the misquotation from 
 Love's Labor 'j Lost^ " As though he had been at a feast 
 of languages and stolen the scraps." The succeeding 
 pages show that it was not from a feast of languages, but 
 from the daily board of wayfaring humanity, that such 
 scraps were gleaned. In the course of years, and dur- 
 ing successive changes of residence from the extreme 
 East to San Francisco and back, the collection grew until 
 it contained over a thousand poems. A friend suggested 
 the collocation of the most valuable into some permanent 
 
8 
 
 EXPLANATORY. 
 
 companionship of this volume, and are not generally ac- 
 cessible to a large body of readers of poetry. Rain on 
 the Roqf'is included for the reason assigned in an accom- 
 panying note. The Water-Wheel has been a fugitive 
 without a father so long, that this opportunity was taken 
 to name its author. William Cullen Bryant had the 
 courage to give the Beatitifnl Snow a place in his 
 Library of Poetry and Song^ although denied sanctuary 
 by Dana and other editors. As it appears in this volume 
 the last verse has been restored. Some readers may 
 be interested in comparing it with the Beautiful Snow 
 written by Major Sigourney, who was long credited with 
 the authorship of the more famous poem. 
 
 As the reader comes to the end of poem after poem in 
 this collection well worthy the pen of a master, but with- 
 out a sign to show whence it came, he must remark the 
 result of one of the most inexcusable faults of modein 
 journalism. Some newspapers make it a rule not to 
 publish the names of their own writers who contribute 
 poetry, while others systematically reprint verses with 
 only the name of the publication from which they are 
 clipped, ignoring the signature appended to the original 
 verse. From the blank spaces at the foot of the un- 
 claimed poems in this volume there rises an appeal to the 
 publishers of newspapers to do a sm^U justice to the 
 minor poets of the English tongue. It says with irre- 
 sistible logic, "If a poem is worth publishing at all, its 
 author is worthy of recognition." 
 
 Little more remains to be said. It is not pretended 
 that all the selections herein were written within the 
 years mentioned on the titlepage. Indeed, some of 
 them are " old vagrants," and the date of many more it 
 is impossil.le to fix, for newspaper poetry travels in 
 cycles, the same piece turning up in the same " Poet's 
 Corner" about once in seven years. Unlike standard 
 collections from tht best authors, this volume contains 
 a very small percentage of poems to be found elsewhere. 
 It preserves many that would otherwise have nerished 
 by the wayside, — lost for want of a collector. It is sui 
 generis. Perhaps it may inspire future editions to which 
 a more exacting standard of excellence can be applied. 
 If in its pages there is shown the possession of a dis- 
 
 il 
 
EXPLANATORY. 
 
 criminating judgment regarding tlie treasurer "more 
 golden than gold," irrespective of their lowly source, let 
 it be attributed to an early study of Mr. Francis Turner 
 Palgrave's Golden Treasury^ wliich I regret to say some 
 Ill-equipped editor has attempted to gild with modern 
 alloy. 
 
 If the pleasure I have taken in collecting my scraps 
 here, there, and everywhere, and the labor I have be- 
 stowed in bringing them within the compass of this vol- 
 ume, — the doubting judgment respecting some and the 
 regret of rejecting others, — if this shall be the means 
 of preserving many of the better fugitive verses of the 
 period ; if to any man or woman, youth or maiden, it shall 
 give a worthy book to take from the shelf when the tasks 
 for the day are all done ; if any shall find herein some 
 familiar but mislaid verse ; if its pages shall recall for- 
 gotten scenes to some and whisper in the ear of "unevent- 
 ful toil " some strains of the music that is everywhere ; 
 if its leaves shall bring a balm of hope, encouragement, 
 and sweet content to some despondent heart ; if its final 
 mc al shall teach some frail and weary wight that love, 
 truth, and mirth are unfailing comforters, comrades, 
 friends, — I shall be satisfied. 
 
 S. T. 
 
 Chicago, Ociober, 1885. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 -•o*- 
 
 PACB 
 
 Index of Titles 13 
 
 PART 
 
 I. Of Poets and Poetry 2$ 
 
 II. Among the Little Folk 37 
 
 III. For Christmas Tide 77 
 
 IV. Under the Open Sky 91 
 
 V. Love, Sentiment, and Friendship .... 123 
 
 VI. Echoes of the Past 167 
 
 Vn. In the Twilight 199 
 
 VIII. Home and Fireside 217 
 
 IX. Hope, Encouragement, and Contentment . 233 
 
 X. Lii-E, Religion, and Death's Mystery . . 277 
 
 XI. With a Story to Tell 329 
 
 XII. Parting and Absence 355 
 
 XIII. Tragedy and Sorrow 365 
 
 XIV. Every-day Lights and Shadows 381 
 
 XV. War and Peace 405 
 
 XVL Comedy, Burlesque, Parody, and Epitaph . 421 
 
 Index of First Lines 453 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PACB 
 
 Accursed 366 
 
 " Across the Lot " C. S 326 
 
 Afeared of a Gal 135 
 
 Aftermath, The yames Hendry .... 199 
 
 , Age of Love, The 123 
 
 A (iirl 's a Girl for A' That 445 
 
 Ah! Me ijiJ 
 
 All the Same in the End 450 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra .... Gen. W. H. Lytle . . . 143 
 
 Any One Will Do , . 431 
 
 Asli Pool, The 365 
 
 Asking 152 
 
 As Pebbles in the Sea 263 
 
 Astronomical 437 
 
 .At Home Bernard Barton .... 217 
 
 At Last 410 
 
 At Sea F. W. Brooks . . . . 185 
 
 At the Court-House Door 392 
 
 At the Loom 285 
 
 At the Piano 213 
 
 Autumn 112 
 
 Baby in Church 70 
 
 Baby-Land 37 
 
 Baby Over the Way, Tlie 61 
 
 Baby's Letter 46 
 
 Baby's Rattle, A 48 
 
 Bald-headed Tyrant, The 43 
 
 Bar-Tender's Story, The 397 
 
 Bean-Blossonii 100 
 
 Beautiful Grandmamma 59 
 
 B:;autiful Snow James IV. Watson . . . 371 
 
 Be:\utiful Snow Major Sigonrney . , . 370 
 
 Before Saihng 357 
 
 Bertie's Philosop'.iy Eva M, Tappan .... 66 
 
 Better to Climb and Fall 240 
 
 Beyond the Haze 266 
 
 " Bide a Wee, and Dlnna Fret " . Si. P.. G 261 
 
 Billy's Rose 330 
 
 Bird on the Telegraph Wire, The "96 
 
 Birthday Greeting, A , . . . M. E. F 162 
 
 Blue and the Gray, The . • . . Francis Miles Finch . . 413 
 
14 INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Blue and the Gray, The 412 
 
 lioat-Horn, The 177 
 
 Bottom Drawer, The Mary A. Barr . . . 194 
 
 Boys' Rights Carrie May .... 67 
 
 Brandy and Soda Hugh Howard . . . 447 
 
 Bridge of Life, The 277 
 
 Brook Song, A Eugene Field .... 109 
 
 Burial of Moses, The Mrs. C. F. Alexander . 310 
 
 By and By 241 
 
 By the Sea 291 
 
 Calumny 367 
 
 Captive Humniing-Bird, The . . . Joel T. Hart .... 94 
 
 Card Houses 65 
 
 Character and a Question, A 280 
 
 Cheerful Heart, The 233 
 
 Children's Bedtime, The 55 
 
 Children's Music, The 57 
 
 Chimes of Old England, The . . . Bishop Coxe .... 294 
 
 Chimney Nest, The Mary B, Dodge ... 93 
 
 Christmas Bells 82 
 
 Christmas Camp on the San Gabr'el Amelia Barr .... 79 
 
 Christmas Outcasts 82 
 
 Christmas Shadows %x 
 
 Christmas Song, A Mrs. Hattie S. Russell . 70 
 
 Christmas Treasures Eugene Field .... 81 
 
 Churning Song, The Silas Dinsmore , . . 391 
 
 Cigarette Vagary, A Camilla K. von K. . . 421 
 
 CHy Contrasts 382 
 
 Cltopatra's Dream 7' J' Owens .... 147 
 
 Cleopatra's Soliloquy Mary Bayard Clark . 146 
 
 Cleopatra to Antony Sarah Doudney Clarke 144 
 
 Cloud, The 120 
 
 Clover, The JamesWhitcomh Riley . X05 
 
 Cob House, The Kate Putnam Osgood . 64 
 
 Cockney Wail, A 426 
 
 "Coming Man," The 41 
 
 Compensation 258 
 
 Conceit, A Mortimer Collins . . 136 
 
 Conquered at Last ...... Maria L. Eve . . . 416 
 
 Constant Friend, The 160 
 
 Content 267 
 
 Contentment Will S. Hayes . , . 267 
 
 Contentment 266 
 
 Conversational 438 
 
 Could n't Keep a Secret 126 
 
 Countersign was Mary, The . . . Margaret Eytinge . . 407 
 
 Court of Berlin, The 351 
 
 Creeping Up the Stairs Rev. W. S. McFetridge . 57 
 
 Curtain Falls, The Joseph Verey .... 341 
 
 Dan's Wife 224 
 
 Darwinism in the Kitchen 425 
 
 Days That Are No More, The 168 
 
 Dead in His Bed A. L. Ballon .... 387 
 
 Decoration Day 415 
 
 Decreed 304 
 
 Deed and a Word, A Charles Mackay ... 29 
 
 Delights of Camp Life 431 
 
 Deserted 36 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PACK 
 412 
 
 194 
 67 
 447 
 277 
 109 
 310 
 241 
 291 
 367 
 94 
 
 ^5 
 280 
 
 233 
 55 
 57 
 
 294 
 
 93 
 82 
 
 79 
 82 
 
 81 
 39 » 
 
 4" 
 
 3S2 
 
 M7 
 146 
 144 
 120 
 
 105 
 
 64 
 
 426 
 
 41 
 258 
 136 
 416 
 160 
 267 
 267 
 266 
 438 
 
 120 
 
 407 
 
 351 
 
 57 
 
 341 
 224 
 
 425 
 168 
 387 
 41S 
 304 
 29 
 
 439 
 368 
 
 Dolce Far Niente 
 
 Do Something 
 
 Dreams 
 
 Drifted out to Soa Bosa Hartwick TJiorpe 
 
 Driving Home the Cows .... Kate Putnam Osgood . 
 
 Duty's Reward 
 
 Eliab Eliezer James Roann Reed . . 
 
 Elswitha Alary Barry .... 
 
 Encore 
 
 "En Voyage" Caroline A. Mason . . 
 
 Exiles, The , 
 
 Explanation, An Walter Learned ... 
 
 Failure 
 
 Fairy Faces < 
 
 Fallen Geo. Edward Montgomery . 
 
 False and True , 
 
 Farewell 
 
 Fate 
 
 Father John 
 
 Fifty Years Apart 
 
 Fisherman Job James Roann Reed . 
 
 Flotsam and Jetsam 
 
 Flower from the Catskills, A . . E. W. 
 
 Fool's Prayer, The 
 
 Forever 
 
 For Life and Death 
 
 Fortune My Foe Alfred P. Graves 
 
 Fred Englehardt's Baby .... Charles Pollen Adams 
 French with a Master .... Theodore Tilton . . 
 
 Friend or Foe? P. E. Weatherly . . 
 
 Friend'ihip 
 
 Friendship, Love, and Truth 
 
 Frivolous Girl, The 
 
 Gentleman Jim Daniel O^Connell 
 
 Give Me Rest 
 
 "Give Thanks for What?" 
 
 Going Home in the Morning . , Wayne Douglas . . 
 
 Going Softly 
 
 Golden Side, The 
 
 Gone 
 
 "Good-by" 
 
 Goodest Mother, The 
 
 Good-Night Hester A. Benedict . ■ 
 
 Gran'ma Al'us Does 
 
 Green Grass under the Snow, The Annie A. Preston . , 
 
 Growing Old 
 
 Guilty, or Not Guilty ? 
 
 Hardest Time of All, The . . . Sarah Doudney Clarke 
 
 Haunted Chambers 
 
 Hawthorn , 
 
 Heads, Hearts, and Hands . . . George W. Bungay 
 
 Heart's-Ease 
 
 Heliotrope , 
 
 Her Name 
 
 Highway Cow, The 
 
 Hindoo Sceptic, The 
 
 Hindoo's Death, The 
 
 Hint, A 
 
 IS 
 
 PAGB 
 161 
 
 253 
 175 
 
 348 
 405 
 
 399 
 293 
 201 
 
 22S 
 271 
 222 
 
 154 
 242 
 
 78 
 250 
 264 
 
 356 
 360 
 401 
 211 
 
 338 
 290 
 lOI 
 
 300 
 180 
 
 346 
 217 
 
 62 
 
 134 
 129 
 160 
 161 
 
 153 
 
 400 
 '122 
 2^6 
 
 385 
 271 
 
 184 
 
 355 
 63 
 
 358 
 52 
 
 208 
 
 388 
 262 
 171 
 190 
 247 
 
 103 
 104 
 
 72 
 440 
 
 303 
 
 442 
 
 44 
 
1 
 
 i6 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 His Messenger 361 
 
 Home-Coming 218 
 
 Home is Wliere the Heart is 21S 
 
 Hope Deferred 360 
 
 Humming of the Wires, The . . . Edward A. Rand . . 384 
 
 Hymn to Santa Rita Ahey A, Adee . . . 154 
 
 Ideal Future, An T A. Harcourt . . . 317 
 
 If I Should Die To-night 309 
 
 If We Knew ; or, Blessings of To-day Mrs. May Riley Smith 207 
 
 If You Want a Kiss, Why. Take It 423 
 
 Improved "Enoch Arden" 443 
 
 In a Graveyard 319 
 
 In Ba^ Chaleur Hezekiah Butterivorth . 343 
 
 In Praise of Wine 421 
 
 In Snow-time 118 
 
 In the Hammock i ^o 
 
 Indecision 133 
 
 Interrogation Mark (?) F. A. Le H. . . . , 286 
 
 Invocation to Poesy, An Charles Mackay ... 23 
 
 It Is Common 32 
 
 I Wud Knot Dye in Wintur 427 
 
 toy of Incompleteness, The 238 
 
 ubilate 158 
 
 udge Not 294 
 
 Ling's Picture, The Helen B. Bosiwick . . 30 
 
 King's Ships, The 322 
 
 Kiss in the Rain, A 138 
 
 Last and Worst Frances Ekin Allison . 376 
 
 Last Arrival, The 41 
 
 Late October D. M. Jordan . . . 116 
 
 Lavender 19a 
 
 Lay Me Low * 313 
 
 Lay of a Dairy-Maid 439 
 
 Learn to Wait 240 
 
 Leedle Yawcob Strauss Charles Fallen Adams . 62 
 
 L'Envoy Randolph . . . 136 
 
 Lesson m Mythology, A Eliza C. Hall .... 434 
 
 Life 279 
 
 Life 279 
 
 Life (A Literary Curiosity) .... Airs. H. A. Deming . 283 
 
 Life and Death 288 
 
 Life or Death E. B 314 
 
 Life's Triumph Thomas S. Collier . . 236 
 
 Light F. W. Bourdillon . . 125 
 
 Light and Love 129 
 
 Like His Mother Used to Make . . James Whitcomb Riley 227 
 
 Lily and the Linden, TK» .... Dr. Fred Crosby . . . 106 
 
 Lines by an Old Fogy 437 
 
 Lines on a Grasshopper 438 
 
 Little Church Round the Corner, The A. E. Lancaster . . . 305 
 
 Little Conqueror, The 69 
 
 Little Girl's Curiosity, A 54 
 
 Little Goldenhair 58 
 
 Little Peach, The Eugene Field .... 428 
 
 Little Phil 329 
 
 Little Stitches 226 
 
 Living 289 
 
 Lost Babies, The i8a 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 17 
 
 PACE 
 
 Lost Letter, A Clement Scott .... 378 
 
 Lost Sheep, The Sally Pratt McLean . 205 
 
 Love and Labor 236 
 
 Love and Pity 125 
 
 Love of the Past, The 167 
 
 Love's Belief 128 
 
 Love's Life, A 124 
 
 Love's Logic . 130 
 
 Love's Transfiguration 127 
 
 " Lulu " Carrie W. Thompson . 69 
 
 Mad, Mad Muse, The Robert J. Burdette . . 445 
 
 Magclalena 244 
 
 March 444 
 
 Mattie's Wants and Wishes 51 
 
 Maximus .' . 255 
 
 Memories 169 
 
 Memory 168 
 
 Merry Christmas 77 
 
 Message of the Rose, The 99 
 
 Message of Victory, The .... Augusta Webster . .415 
 
 Meteors Anna Ph. Ekhberg . 109 
 
 Midges in the Sunshine 290 
 
 Miller and the Maid, The . ... F.N. Scott .... 137 
 
 Model Church, The 299 
 
 Moon and Dawn 117 
 
 Mother 185 
 
 Mother's Blessing, The 202 
 
 Music in the Soul 140 
 
 My Aim Thomas Guthrie . . . 277 
 
 My Cigarette C. F. Lummis . . . 214 
 
 My Josiar 159 
 
 My Lost Baby 47 
 
 My Lost Love i86 
 
 My Mother's Hands 221 
 
 Narrow House, The 316 
 
 Nearing Port C. P. R. 321 
 
 Near the Dawn , 243 
 
 Nelly Tells How Baby Came . . . Thomas S. Collier . . 38 
 
 Nestlings F. C. A 92 
 
 New Baby, The 45 
 
 New Magdalen, The R, L. Cary, Jr. . . . 345 
 
 New Year, A 86 
 
 Night and Morning 307 
 
 Nocturne 24 
 
 No Sect in Heaven 296 
 
 Nothing at all in the Paper To-day 381 
 
 " Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep " 53 
 
 October D.M.Jordan ... 115 
 
 October 115 
 
 Old Deacon's Lament, The . . . Mrs.E. ,. Corbctt . . 178 
 
 Old Fiddling Josey Ir-win Russell .... 435 
 
 Old Friends 162 
 
 Old Rhyme, An 153 
 
 Old Song, An 176 
 
 Old Time and I Mark Lemon .... 440 
 
 One by One 170 
 
 Only 356 
 
 Only a Baby 39 
 
 a 
 
i8 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 Xv :: 
 
 i;.- 
 
 w 
 
 PAf*R 
 
 Only a Bit of Childhood Thrown Away ulaud Moore .... 74 
 
 Only a Woman 370 
 
 Only Joe James Roann Reed . . 335 
 
 Orchard-Lands of Long Ago, The . Juvks Whiicomb Riley 191 
 
 Our Childhood's Home R. S. 172 
 
 Our Darling .... 44 
 
 Our Last Toast Bartholome^v Dnvlhig . 409 
 
 Our Own 223 
 
 Outcast, The Afary E. Kiiter ... 367 
 
 Outcast's Dream, The Olive Bell 336 
 
 Outwards or Homewards . . . . F. W. Bourdillon . . 238 
 
 Out West 446 
 
 " Owed " to My Pocket-Book , . .^30 
 
 Pansies Sarah Doudncy Clarke '96 
 
 Paradise of Tears, The 320 
 
 Parson's Comforter, The .... Frcderit k Langbridge . 323 
 
 Parting Coventry Patmore . . 35; 
 
 Pastor's Reverie, The 188 
 
 Patient 265 
 
 Pat's Letter Qiiecrguill 429 
 
 Pessimism 251 
 
 Phantom of the Rose, The .... Jerome A. Hart ... 98 
 
 Plea for " Castle<i in the Air," A . . Jacob Gough .... 239 
 
 Poetic Mystery, The 24 
 
 Poetry and the Poor , W. Walsham Bedfot d . 25 
 
 Poker 449 
 
 Poor Little Joe 340 
 
 Prairie Path, The no 
 
 Prince of Peace, The 308 
 
 Promise 108 
 
 Pull-Back, A 433 
 
 Query, A 287 
 
 Rabbi's Present, Th •. 432 
 
 Rain 108 
 
 Rain in the Heart 256 
 
 Rain on the Roof Coates Kinney ... 27 
 
 Rain upon the Roof, The .... Mrs. F, B. Gage ... 26 
 
 Rainy Day, A 173 
 
 Recipe for a Poem 32 
 
 Rest 319 
 
 Rest 182 
 
 Rest at Eventide Thomas D^Arcy McGee 312 
 
 Rest in the Grave 315 
 
 Retribution David L. Proudfit . . 334 
 
 Retrospection Garnet B. Freeman . 270 
 
 Retrospection 187 
 
 Reunited Love R. D. Blackinore . . 131 
 
 Right and Wrong 260 
 
 Ring's Motto, The 151 
 
 Robin 's Come 91 
 
 Rocking the Baby 229 
 
 Rock of Ages 305 
 
 Roll-Call N.G. Shepard ... 406 
 
 Rosebud's First Ball 68 
 
 Rose-Bush, The 97 
 
 Sabbath Bells, The 296 
 
 Saddened Tramp, A 439 
 
 Saddest Fate, The 259 
 
INDEX OF TITLES. 
 
 19 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Sad Ventures 359 
 
 Satisfied Hester A. Benedict . . . 269 
 
 Scandal-Mongers 390 
 
 Seaside Incidont, A 436 
 
 Sea's Love, The F. E. Weatherly .... 132 
 
 Sermon in a Stocking, The 220 
 
 Shadows 284 
 
 Silence Lynch 238 
 
 Silence of Love, The Hamilton Drtimmond . . 157 
 
 Sister Madeleine Clare Everest 373 
 
 Slander 367 
 
 .Somehow or Other 249 
 
 Sometime Mrs, May Riley Smith . 234 
 
 .Sometimes Louisa F. Story .... 163 
 
 Song for the Girl I Love, A 156 
 
 Song for the Hot Winds, A . . . Harriet M. Davidson . . 219 
 
 Song for Summer, A Rossiter Johnson . . . 426 
 
 Songs in Sleep 211 
 
 'Specially Jim B. M. 433 
 
 Stone the Woman, Let the Man Go Free 396 
 
 Story of the Gate T. H. Robertson .... 149 
 
 Such a Duck 431 
 
 Summer Picture, A iii 
 
 Telegraph Clerk, The 384 
 
 Tete-i-tete 138 
 
 That Amateur Flute 449 
 
 That Boy 54 
 
 Thine Eyes John F. Ballantync . . 154 
 
 This Year — Next Year 124 
 
 Though Lost to Sight, to Meni'ry Dear 361 
 
 Through Life 280 
 
 Through Toil A. L. Hinds 248 
 
 "Time to Me" 248 
 
 Tired 204 
 
 Tired Mothers Mrs. May Riley Smith . 225 
 
 Tired Out 272 
 
 Told at the Tavern Theo. F. Havens . . . 332 
 
 To-morrow 348 
 
 Too Great a Sacrifice 430 
 
 To Thine Own Self be True . . Pakenham Beatty . . . 302 
 
 Tragic Poem, A 439 
 
 Trailing Arbutus Henry Abbey ibi 
 
 Trout-iJrook, The Carl Waring 119 
 
 Trust 393 
 
 Turned Out for Rent M. L. S. Burke .... 391 
 
 Turning Over the New Leaf 87 
 
 Twilight Dreams 200 
 
 Twilight Reverie, A 213 
 
 Twilight's Hour W. F.E.I. 199 
 
 Two 350 
 
 Two Men I Know 424 
 
 Two Pictures 281 
 
 Two Robbers F.W. Bourdillnn . . . 313 
 
 Undowered Harriet McEwen Kimball 157 
 
 Unfinished Prater, The . 53 
 
 Unfinished Still , 174 
 
 Unspoken Words 31 
 
 Upon the Threshold ..... G. iS. 85 
 
30 
 
 INDEX OF TITLES 
 
 PAGB 
 
 Vagrant, A Josephine Pollard . . . 175 
 
 Violet's Grave, The Vicortari 105 
 
 Wabash Violets Earl Marble 394 
 
 Waiting 246 
 
 Wanderer, The John C, Fremont . . . 180 
 
 Wanderer, The Eugene Field 108 
 
 Washing-Day 46 
 
 Watching for Papa 50 
 
 Water-Lily, The 97 
 
 Water-Mill, The Sarah Doudney Clarke . 395 
 
 Wedded 140 
 
 Welcome, Little Stranger 39 
 
 We Love but Few 156 
 
 We Shall be Satisfied S. K. Phi'lip . . . . . 325 
 
 What Have I Done ? Lillian Bt.mche Fcu -ing . 283 
 
 What House to Like 272 
 
 What is His Creed ? 301 
 
 What is Life ? 277 
 
 What Lifft Hath 235 
 
 What My Lover Said 126 
 
 What of That ? 260 
 
 M. E. 
 
 Robert J. Burdette . . 
 Mrs. Agnes E, Mitchell 
 James Whitcomb Riley 
 Pakenham Beatty 
 
 108 
 237 
 
 205 
 117 
 123 
 
 What They Dreamed and Said . 
 When My Ship Comes in . . 
 When the Cows Come Home . 
 " When the Frost is on the Punkin " 
 When Will Love Come ? . . . 
 
 Where Ignorance is BHss 153 
 
 While We May 193 
 
 Who Gather Gold 290 
 
 "Who'll Tend Baby? E. E 72 
 
 Why ? Maud Moore 73 
 
 Why Drink Wine Dr. Henry Aldrich . . . 442 
 
 Why Is It So? 282 
 
 Why Truth Goes Naked 422 
 
 Winter 113 
 
 Winter 113 
 
 With the Tide 281 
 
 Woman's Complaint, A 210 
 
 Woman's Wish, A Mary A. Townsend . . 212 
 
 Work 261 
 
 World and I, The 268 
 
 Yearning 202 
 
 Yellow-Hammer's Nest, The . , 95 
 
 "Yes" . R. D. Blackmore . . . . 130 
 
 Yes? H. C. Bttnner . .... 141 
 
 Yes I George H. Jessop . . . 142 
 
 Zoology 435 
 
 V'\ 
 
 .1 -": 
 
PAGB 
 
 105 
 
 394 
 246 
 
 • I80 
 . 108 
 
 46 
 
 • 50 
 
 • 97 
 
 • 395 
 
 • 140 
 
 . 156 
 
 • 325 
 . 283 
 
 . 272 
 
 ■ 301 
 
 • 277 
 
 ■ 235 
 126 
 260 
 108 
 237 
 205 
 117 
 123 
 
 '53 
 193 
 
 290 
 
 72 
 
 73 
 442 
 
 282 
 
 422 
 
 "3 
 
 28 1 
 210 
 212 
 261 
 268 
 202 
 
 95 
 
 130 
 
 141 
 
 142 
 
 435 
 
 PART I. 
 
 <^f ^ott^ am ^dctrp. 
 
tt I 
 
 Ifto embody in a breathing word 
 
 Tones that the spirit trembled when it heard; 
 
 To fix the image all unveiled and wartn^ 
 
 And carve in language its ethereal form, 
 
 So pure, so perfect, that the lines express 
 
 JVo meagre shrinhing, no unlaced excess; 
 
 To feel that art, in living truth, has taught 
 
 Ourselves, reflected in the sculptured thought; — 
 
 Ifjhis alone bestow the right to claim 
 
 The deathless garland and the sacred name; 
 
 Then none are poets, save the saints on high, 
 
 Whose harps can murmur all that words deny. 
 
 • • • • • 
 
 So every grace that plastic language knows 
 To nameless poets its perfection owes. 
 The rough-hewn words to simplest thoughts confined 
 Were cut and polished in their nicer mind ; 
 Caught on their edge, imagination's ray 
 Splits into rainbows, shooting far away ; — 
 From sense to soul, from soul to sense, itflies^ 
 And through all nature links analogies ; 
 He who reads right will rarely look upon 
 A better poet than his lexicon. 
 
 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 
 I 
 
THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 #f ^ott^ anil $oett{i. 
 
 AN INVOCATION TO POESY. 
 
 Stay with me, Poesy ! playmate of childhood I 
 
 Friend of my manhood I delight of my youth 1 
 Roamer with me over valley and wildwood, 
 
 Searching for loveliness, groping for Truth. 
 Stay with me, dwell with me, spirit of Poesy ; 
 
 Dark were the world if thy bloom should depart ; 
 Glory would cease in the sunlight and starlight, 
 
 Freshness and courage would fade from my heart. 
 
 Stay with me, comfort me, now more than ever, 
 
 When years stealing over me lead me to doubt 
 If men, ay, and women, are all we believed them 
 
 When we two first wandered the green earth about ! 
 Stay with me, strengthen me, soother, adorner. 
 
 Lest knowledge, not wisdom, should cumber my brain, 
 And tempt me to sit in the chair of the scorner. 
 
 And say, with sad Solomon, all things are vain. 
 
 Stay with me, lend me thy magical mirror, 
 
 S'iiOw me the darkness extinguished in light ; 
 Show me to-day's little triumph of Error 
 
 Foiled by to-morrow's great triumph of Right 1 
 Stay with me, nourish me, robe all creation 
 
 In colors celestial of amber and blue ; 
 Magnify littleness, glorify commonness. 
 
 Pull down the false and establish the true. 
 
I I I 
 
 I!! 
 
 iili 
 
 44 
 
 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Stay with me, Poesy 1 Let me not stagnate I 
 
 Despairing with fools, or believing with knaves, 
 That men must be either the one or the other, — 
 
 Victors or victims, oppressors or slaves ! 
 Stay with me, cling to me, while there is life in me I 
 
 Lead me, assist me, direct and control ! 
 Be in the shade what thou wert in the sunshine, 
 
 Source of true happiness, light of my soul I 
 
 Belgravia. Charles Mackay. 
 
 THE POETIC MYSTERY. 
 (Suggested by "Alice in Wonderland.") 
 
 •' Poet, sit and sing to me ; 
 
 Sing of hov*r you make your rhymes, 
 Tweedledum and tweedledee, 
 
 I have tried it fifty times. 
 When I have a perfect sense, 
 
 Then I have imperfect sounds ; 
 Vice versa I Tell me whence 
 
 You get both, I neither." " Zounds 1 " 
 
 Cried the poet, " Don't you see 
 
 Easy 't is as rolling log. 
 Holding eel or catching flea. 
 
 Meeting friend or leaving grog I 
 No such matter should annoy, 
 
 Deep the poet never delves ; 
 Take care ot the sense, my boy. 
 
 And the sounds care for themselves." 
 
 NOCTURNE. 
 
 (An Echo of Chopin.) 
 
 "When we seek to explain our musical emotions, we look about for 
 images calculated to excite similar emotions, and strive to convey through 
 these images to others the effect produced by music on ourselves." — Haweie, 
 Music ami Morals. 
 
 Wind, and the sound of a sea 
 
 Heard in the night from afar. 
 Spending itself on an unknown shore. 
 Feeling its way o'er an unseen floor 
 
 Lighted by moon nor star ; 
 
 ii. 
 
OF POETS AND POETRY. 
 
 Telling a tale to the listening ear 
 
 Of wounds and woes that the rolling year 
 
 Hath brought to the human heart ; 
 Telling of passion and innermost pain, 
 Sinking and swooning, and growing again, 
 
 As the wind and the waves take part; 
 Lifting a voice to the voiceless skies, 
 Tender entreaties that faint for replies, 
 Pauses of sorrow that pass into sighs 
 
 Horn of a secret despair ; 
 Fluttering back on the clear tide of tone, 
 Gathering in force till the melody 's grown 
 Strong to interpret the accents unknown 
 
 Haunting the dark fields of air ; 
 Speaking the longings of life, the full soul's 
 Hidden desires in music that rolls 
 
 Wave-like in search of a shore ; 
 Eddies of harmony, floating around, 
 Widen in circles of lessening sound. 
 Die in the distance, till silence is found 
 
 And earth redemands us once more. 
 
 n 
 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 POETRY AND THE POOR. 
 
 " The world is very beautiful ! " I said, 
 As, yesterday, beside the brimming stream, 
 Glad and alone, I watched the tremulous gleam 
 
 Slant through the wintry wood, green carpeted 
 
 With moss and fern and curving bramble spray, 
 And bronze the thousand russet margin-reeds. 
 
 And in the sparkling holly glint and play. 
 And kindle all the brier's flaming seeds. 
 
 " The world is very horrible t " I sigh. 
 
 As, in my wonted ways, to-day I tread 
 Chill streets, deformed with dim monotony. 
 
 Hiding strange mysteries of unknown dread, — 
 The reeking court, the breathless fever-den, 
 
 The haunts where things unholy throng and brood 
 Grim crime, the fierce despair of strong-armed men. 
 
 Child infamy, and shameless wonianhood. 
 
 And men have looked upon this piteous thinp;, — 
 Blank lives unvisited by beauty's spell, — 
 
 And said, " Let be : it is not meet to bring 
 Dreams of sweet freedom to the prison cell ; 
 
 Sing them no songs of things all bright and fair. 
 Paint them no visions of the glad and free. 
 Lest with purged sights their miseries they see. 
 
 And through vain longings pass to blank despair." 
 
i! 
 
 26 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 O broihev, treading ever-darkening ways, 
 
 O sister, whelmed in ever-deepening care, 
 Would God we might unfold before your gaze 
 
 Some vision of the pure and true and fair I 
 Better to know, though sadder things be known, 
 
 Better to see, though tears half blind the sight. 
 Than thraldom to the sense, and heart of stone, 
 
 And horrible contentment with the night. 
 
 Oh, bring we then all sweet and gracious things 
 To touch the lives that lie so chill and drear, 
 That they may dream of some diviner sphere. 
 
 Whence each soft ray of love and beauty springs I 
 
 Each good and perfect gift is from above. 
 And there is healing for earth's direst woes ; 
 
 God hath unsealed the springs of light and love, 
 To make the desert blossom as the rose. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 W. Walsham Bedford. 
 
 THE RAIN UPON THE ROOF. 
 
 is 
 
 Long ago a poet dreaming, 
 
 Weaving fancy's warp and woof, 
 
 Penned a tender, soothing poem 
 On the " Rain upon the Roof." 
 
 Once I read it, and its beauty 
 
 Filled my heart with memories sweet ; 
 Days of childhood fluttered round me, 
 
 Violets sprang beneath my feet. 
 And my gentle, loving mother 
 
 Spoke again in accents mild, 
 Curbing every wayward passion 
 
 Of her happy, thoughtless child. 
 Then I heard the swallows twittering 
 
 Underneath the cabin eaves, 
 And the laughing shout of Willie 
 
 Up among the maple leaves. 
 Then I blessed the poet's dreaming — 
 
 Blessed his fancy's warp and woof. 
 And I wept o'er memories treasured, 
 
 As the rain fell on the roof. 
 
 Years ago I lost the poem, 
 
 But its sweetness lingered still, 
 
 As the freshness of the valley 
 
 Marks where flowed the springtime rill. 
 
 Lost to reach, but not to feeling ; 
 For the rain-drop never falls 
 
OF POETS AND POETRY. 2 J 
 
 O'er my head with pattering music, 
 
 But it peoples memory's halls 
 With the old familiar faces 
 
 Loved and treasured long ago, 
 Treasured now as in life's springtime, — 
 
 For no change my heart can know. 
 And I live agam my childhood 
 
 In the home far, far away ; 
 Roam the woodland, orchard, wildwood, 
 
 With my playmates still at play; 
 Then my gray hairs press the pillow, 
 
 Holdmg all the world aloof, 
 Dreaming sweetly as I listen 
 
 To the rain upon the roof. 
 
 Every pattering drop that falleth 
 
 Seemeth like an angel's tread, 
 Bringing messages of mercy 
 
 To the weary heart and head. 
 Pleasant thoughts of years departed, 
 
 Pleasant soothings for to-day. 
 Earnest longings for to-morrow. 
 
 Hoping for the far away ; 
 For I know each drop that falleth 
 
 Comes to bless the thirsty earth, 
 Making seed to bud and blossom, 
 
 Springing all things into birth. 
 As the radiant bow that scattereth 
 
 All our faithlessness with proof 
 Of a seedtime and a harvest, 
 
 So the rain upon the roof. 
 
 Mrs. F. B. Gage. 
 
 RAIN ON THE ROOF. 
 
 When the humid shadows hover 
 
 Over all the starry spheres. 
 And the melancholy darkness 
 
 Gently weeps in rainy tears. 
 What a joy to press the pillow 
 
 Of a cottage-chamber bed. 
 And to listen to the patter 
 
 Of the soft rain overhead I 
 
 Every tinkle on the shingles 
 Has an echo in the heart. 
 
 And a thousand dreamy fancies 
 Into busy being start ; 
 
li^i 
 
 » : 
 
 i 
 
 I' i 
 
 ! I. 
 
 28 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And a thousand recollections 
 Weave their air-threads into woof, 
 
 As I listen to the patter 
 Of the rain upon the roof. 
 
 Now in memory comes my mother 
 
 As she used m years agone, 
 To survey her darling dreamers 
 
 Ere she left them till the dawn : 
 Oh ! I see her leaning o'er me, 
 
 As I list to this refrain 
 , J Which is played upon the shingles 
 
 By the patter of the rain. 
 
 Then my little seraph sister, 
 
 With her wings and waving hair. 
 And her bright-eyed cherub brother — 
 
 A serene, angelic pair ! — 
 Glide around my wakeful pillow. 
 
 With their praise or mild reproof. 
 As 1 listen to the murmur 
 
 Of the soft rain on the roof. 
 
 And another comes to thrill me 
 
 With her eyes' delicious blue; 
 And forget I, gazing on her, 
 
 That her heart was all untrue : 
 I remember that I loved her 
 
 As I ne'er may love again. 
 And my heart's quick pulses vibrate 
 
 To the patter of the rain. 
 
 There is nought in art's bravuras 
 That can work with such a spell 
 ^ In the spirit's pure deep fountains. 
 Whence the holy passions swell, 
 As that melody of Nature, 
 
 That subdued, subduing strain, 
 Which is played upon the shingles 
 By the patter of the rain. 
 
 CoATES Kinney. 
 
 Note. — This charminp; poem was so long a vagrant that its text became 
 very much corrupted until the author furnished a version for publication in 
 which the last verse read as follows : — 
 
 Art hath nought of tone or cadence 
 
 That can work with such a sjiell 
 In the soul's mysterious fountains, 
 
 Whence the tears of rapture well, 
 As that melody of Nature, 
 
 That subdued, subduing strain, 
 Which is played upon the shingles 
 
 By the patter of the rain. 
 
 u 
 
OF POETS AND POETRY. 
 
 29 
 
 It also contained several minor differences in reading from the original. 
 Where considered improvements, they have been adopted; but as a poet's 
 first thoughts are often his best thoughts, I have taken the liberty to follow 
 original "copy" where it seemed to chime best with the patter of the rain. 
 I was the more emboldened to do this by the fact that poets are proverbially 
 unsafe revisers of their own work.* William Culler. Bryant edited the life 
 out of many of his younger passages, while Tennyson in later days has 
 retouched the spirit and force out of some of his earlier work. 
 
 A DEED AND A WORD. 
 
 A LITTLE Stream had lost its way 
 
 Amid the grass and fern ; 
 A passing stranger scooped a well, 
 
 Where weary men might turn ; 
 He walled it in, and hung with care 
 
 A ladle at the brink ; 
 He thought not of the deed he did, 
 
 But judged that all might drink. 
 He passed again, and lo 1 the well, 
 
 By summer never dried, 
 Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, 
 
 And saved a life beside. 
 
 A nameless man, amid a crowd 
 
 That thronged the daily mart, 
 Let fall a word of hope and love. 
 
 Unstudied, from the heart ; 
 A whisper on the tumult thrown, 
 
 A transitory breath — 
 It raised a brother from the dust. 
 
 It saved a soul from death. 
 O germ ! O fount I O word of love I 
 
 O thought at random cast I 
 Ye were but little at the first. 
 
 But mighty at the last. 
 
 Charles Mackay. 
 
 ^ Here, on readinj; the note in manuscript, Mr. Francis F. Browne inter- 
 jected the query, "Is it a fact?" and quoted the following verses from 
 Gautier, as translated by Austin Dobson : — 
 
 "O Poet t then forbear 
 
 The loosely-i.indalled verse ; 
 Choose rather thou to wear 
 The buskin, straight and terse. 
 
 " Leave to the tyro's hand 
 
 The limp and shapeless style ; 
 See that tny form demand 
 The labor of the file." 
 
l!l 
 
 30 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 
 THE KING'S PICTURE. 
 
 The king from the council chamber 
 
 Came, weary and sore of heart ; 
 He called to Iliff, the painter, 
 
 And spoke to him thus apart : 
 I 'm sickened of the faces ignoble, 
 
 Hypocrites, cowards, and knaves ; 
 I shall shrink in their shrunken measure, 
 
 Chief slave in a realm of slaves. 
 
 Paint me a true man's picture. 
 
 Gracious, and wise, and good, 
 Dowered with the strength of heroes 
 
 And the beauty of womanhood. 
 It shall hang in my inmost chamber, 
 
 That, thither when I retire. 
 It may fill my soul with its grandeur, 
 
 " And warm it with sacred fire." 
 
 So the artist painted the picture, 
 
 And it hung in the palace hall ; 
 Never a thing so lovely 
 
 Had garnished the stately wall. 
 The king, with head uncovered, 
 
 Gazed on it with rapt delight. 
 Till it suddenly wore strange meaning — 
 
 Bafiled his questioning sight. 
 
 For the form was the supplest courtier's. 
 
 Perfect in every limb ; 
 But the bearing was that of the henchman 
 
 Who filled the flagons for him ; 
 The brow was a priest's, who pondered 
 
 His parchment early and late ; 
 The eye was the wandering minstrel's, 
 
 Who sang at the palace gate. 
 
 The lips, half sad and half mirthful, 
 
 With a fitful trembling grace, 
 Were the very lips of a woman 
 
 He had kissed in the market-place; 
 But the smiles which her cnrves transfigured. 
 
 As a rose with its shimuier of dew. 
 Was the smile of the wife who loved him, 
 
 Queen Ethelyn, good and true. 
 
 Then, " Learn, O King," said the artist, 
 " This truth that the picture tells — 
 
 That in every form of the human 
 Some hint of the highest dwells; 
 
OF POETS AND POETRY. 
 
 31 
 
 That, scanning each living temple 
 
 For the place that the veil is thin, 
 We may gather by beautiful glimpses 
 
 The form of the God within." 
 
 Helen B. Bostwick. 
 
 UNSPOKEN WORDS. 
 
 The kindly words that rise within the heart. 
 
 And thrill it with their sympathetic tone, 
 But die ere spoken, fail to play their part. 
 
 And claim a merit that is not their own. 
 The kindly word unspoken is a sin, — 
 
 A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, 
 And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, 
 
 That not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. 
 
 But 't is not so ; another heart may thirst 
 
 For thav kind word, as Hagar in the wild — 
 Poor banished Hagar I — prayed a well might buiot 
 
 From out the sand to save her parching child. 
 And loving eyes that cannot see the mind 
 
 Will watch the unexpected movement of the lips. 
 Ah 1 can you let its cutting silence wind 
 
 Around that heart and scathe it like a whip ? 
 
 Unspoken words like treasures in a mine 
 
 Are valueless until we give them birth ; 
 Like unfound gold their hidden beauties shine, 
 
 Which God has made to bless and gild the earth. 
 How sad 't would be to see the master's hand 
 
 Strike glorious notes upon a voiceless lute I 
 But oh, what pain when, at God's own command, 
 
 A heart-string thrills with kindness, but is mute 1 
 
 Then hide it not, the music of the soul. 
 
 Dear sympathy expressed with kindly voice, 
 But let it like a shining river roll 
 
 To deserts 6xy — to hearts that would rejoi*. 
 Oh, let the symphony of kindly words 
 
 Sound for the Jioor, the friendless, and the weak, 
 And He will bless you ! He who struck the chords 
 
 Will strike another when in turn you seek. 
 
I '' 
 
 if 
 
 32 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 IT IS COMMON. 
 
 So are the stars and the arching skies, 
 So are the smiles in the children's eyes : 
 Common the life-giving breath of the spring ; 
 So are the songs which the wild birds sing, — 
 Blessed be God, they are common. 
 
 Common the grass :n its glowing green ; 
 So is'the water's glistening sheen : 
 Common the springs of love and mirth ; 
 So are the holiest gifts of earth. 
 
 Common the fragrance of rosy June ; 
 So is the generous harvest moon, 
 So are the towering, mighty hills, 
 So are the twittering, trickling rills. 
 
 Common ihe beautiful tints of the fall ; 
 So is the sun which is over all ; 
 Common the rain, with its pattering feet ; 
 So is the bread which we daily eat, — 
 Blessed be God, it is common. 
 
 So is the sea in its wild unrest, 
 Kissing forever the earth's brown breast ; 
 So is the voice of undying prayer, 
 Evermore piercing the ambient air. 
 
 So unto all are the " promises " given, 
 So unto all is the hope of heaven : 
 Common the rest from the weary strife ; 
 So is the life which is after life, — 
 Blessed be God, it is common. 
 
 RECIPE FOR A POEM. 
 
 Take for your hero some thoroughbred scamp, — 
 Miner, or pilot, or jockey, or tramp, — 
 Gambler (of couise), drunkard, bully, and cheat, 
 Facile princeps, in way of deceit ; 
 So fond of the ladies, he 's given to bigamy 
 (Better, perhaps, if you make it polygamy) ; 
 Pepper his talk with the raciest slang. 
 Culled from the haunts of his rude, vulgar gang ; 
 Seasoned with blasphemy — lard him with curses; 
 Serve him up hot in your " dialect *' verses — 
 Properly dished, he'd excite a sensation, 
 And tickle the taste of our delicate nation. 
 
OF POETS AND POETRY. 33 
 
 Old Mother English has twaddle enough; 
 
 Give us a language that 's ready and tough ! 
 
 Who cares, just now, fo"- a subject Miltonian ? 
 
 Who is n't bored by a siyle Addisonian ? 
 
 Popular heroes must wear shabby clothes ! 
 
 What if their diction is cumbered with oaths I ' 
 
 That 's but a feature of life Occidental, 
 
 Really, at heart, they are pious and gentle. 
 
 Think, for example, how solemn and rich is 
 
 The sermon we gather from dear " Little Breeches " ! 
 
 Is n't it charming — that sweet baby talk 
 
 Of the urchin who " chawed " ere he fairly could walk ? 
 
 Sure, 't is no wonder bright spirits above 
 Singled him out for their errand of love I 
 I suppose I 'm a " fogy," — not up to the age, — 
 \ But I can't help recalling an earlier stage, 
 When a real inspiration [divimis afflatus) 
 Could be printed without any saving hiatus ; 
 When humor was decently shrouded in rhyme. 
 As suited the primitive ways of the time, 
 And we all would have blushed had we dreamed of the rules 
 Which are taught us to-day in our "dialect " schools. 
 
 It may be all right, though I find it all wrong, 
 This queer prostitution of talent and song; 
 Perhaps, in our market, gold sells at a loss, — 
 And the public will pay better prices for dross, — 
 Well ! 't were folly to row 'gainst a tide that has turned, 
 And the lesson that 's set us has got to be learned ; 
 But I '11 make one more desperate pull to be free 
 Ere I swallow the brood of that "Heathen Chinee." 
 
 A'ew York Evening Post. 
 
&!m ? 
 
PART II. 
 
 aimong tfte %Mt folk. 
 
i. 
 
 So every little child / see, 
 
 With brmv and spirit undefiled, 
 And simple faith and frolic glee. 
 
 Finds still in me another child. 
 
 ]. G. Holland. 
 
 i 1 
 
 !i i . 
 
 ■;!i' 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 \ 
 
 i 
 i 
 
 I 
 
PART II. 
 
 atmottg tfte %mt f olft* 
 
 BABY-LAND. 
 
 " How many miles to Baby-land ? " 
 "Any one can tell; 
 Up one flight, 
 To ihe right ; 
 Please to ring the bell." 
 
 " What can you see in Baby-land ? " 
 " Little folks in white — 
 Downy heads, 
 Cradle-beds, 
 Faces pure and bright f " 
 
 " What do they do in Baby-land ? " 
 " Dream and wake and play, 
 Laugh and crow, 
 Shout and grow ; 
 Jolly times have they ! " 
 
 « 
 
 "What do they say in Baby-land? " 
 " Why, the oddest things ; 
 Might as well 
 Try to tell 
 What a birdie sings I " 
 
 " Who is the Queen of Baby-land ? " 
 " Mother, kind and sweet ; 
 And her love. 
 Born above. 
 Guides the little feet." 
 
38 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I ' 
 
 NELLY TELLS HOW BABY CAME. 
 
 There's no use of your talking, for mamma told me so, 
 And if there 's any one th.\t does, my mamma ought to know ; 
 For she has been to Eurof-'C and seen the Pope at Rome, 
 Though she says that was before I came to live with her at 
 home. 
 
 You see we had no baby, — unless you call me one. 
 
 And I have grown so big, you know, t would have to be in fun, — 
 
 When I went to sec grandma, about two weeks ago, 
 
 And now we 've one, a little one, that squirms and wiggles so. 
 
 And mamma says an angel came down from heaven above, 
 
 And brought this baby to her for her and me to love; 
 
 And it 's got the cunningest of feet, as little as can be, 
 
 And shining eyes and curly hair, and hands you scarce can see. 
 
 And then it never cries a bit, like some bad babies do ; 
 And papa says it looks like me — I don't think so, do you ? 
 P'or I 'm a girl and it 's a boy, and boys I can't endure ; 
 Unless they 're babies like our own, they '11 plague and tease 
 you, sure. 
 
 But you say the angel did n't come : now you just tell me why ; 
 The Bible says there 's angels in heaven, and that 's up in the 
 
 sky; 
 And Christ loves little babies, and God made everything. 
 And if the angels didn't, who did our baby bring .'' 
 
 You can't tell : no, I guess you can't, but mamma ought to 
 
 know. 
 For it 's her baby — hers and ours — and mamma told me so: 
 And they don't make any cunning things like him on earth, you 
 
 see. 
 For no wax doll, with real hair, is half so nice as he. 
 
 I know an angel Drought him, and I think one brought me too ; 
 Though I don't just now remember, and so can't tell, can you ? 
 But mamma knows; and this I know, — the baby was n't home 
 When I went away, and now he is. If you want to see him, 
 come. 
 
 For mamma says if I am good I can kiss him every day, 
 
 And we '11 kiss him now, and then go out and have a nice long 
 
 play ; 
 And if any'oody asks you how babies come and go. 
 Why, tell them it 's the angels, for mamma told me so. 
 
 Thomas S. Collier. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 39 
 
 WELCOME, LITTLE STRANGER. 
 (By a Displaced Three-year-old.) 
 
 MozzKR bought a baby, 
 
 'Ittle bitsey sing ; 
 Sinks I mos' could put him 
 
 Frou my yubber ying. 
 Ain't he awful ugly .'' 
 
 Ain't he awful pink ? 
 "Just come clown from heaven " — 
 
 Yat 's a fib, I sink. 
 
 Doctor tol' anozzer 
 
 Great big awful lie ; 
 Nose ain't out o' joint, zen, 
 
 Yat ain't why I cry. 
 Mamma stays up in bedroom — 
 
 Guess he makes her sick. 
 Frow him in the gutter, 
 
 Beat him wiz a stick. 
 
 Cuddle him and love him I 
 
 Call him *' Blessed sing " 
 Don't care if my kite ain t 
 
 Got a bit of string ! 
 Send me off with Bridget 
 
 Every single day, — 
 " Be a good boy, Charley, 
 
 Run away and play." 
 
 Said •' I ought to love him " I 
 
 No, I won't! no zur! 
 Nassy cry in' baby. 
 
 Not got any hair. 
 Got all my nice kisses, 
 
 Got my place in bed, — 
 Mean to take my drumsticks 
 
 And beat him on the head. 
 
 \ 
 
 ONLY A BABY. 
 (To a Little One just a Week Old.) 
 
 Only a baby 
 
 ' Thout any hair, 
 'Cept just a little 
 
 Fuzz here and there. 
 
40 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Only a baby, 
 
 Name you have none, 
 Barefooted and dimpled, 
 
 Sweet little one. 
 
 Only a baby, 
 
 Teeth none at all ; 
 What are you good for, 
 
 Only to squall ? 
 
 I t; 
 
 £ " 
 
 i 
 1 
 
 iif ' j 
 
 ■V? « 
 
 ^J 
 
 Only a baby, 
 
 Just a week old ; 
 What are you here for, 
 
 You little scold ? 
 
 BABY'S REPLY. 
 
 Only a baby I 
 
 What sood I be ? 
 Lots o' big folks 
 
 Been little like me. 
 
 Ain't dot any hair? 
 
 'Es I have, too ; 
 S'pos'n' I had n't, 
 
 Dess it tood drow. 
 
 Not any teeth — 
 
 Would n't have one ; 
 Don't dit my dinner 
 
 Gnawin' a bone. 
 
 What am I here for ? 
 
 'At 's petty mean ; 
 Who 's dot a better right 
 
 'Tever you've seen? 
 
 What am I dood for, 
 
 Did you say ? 
 Eber so many sings 
 
 Ebery day. 
 
 Tourse I sfjuall at times, 
 Sometimes 1 bawl ; 
 
 Zey dassn't spant me, 
 Taus I 'm so small. 
 
 ^1. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 Only a baby I 
 
 'Es, sir, 'at 's so; 
 'N' if you only tood, 
 
 You 'd be one, too. 
 
 ; 'At 's all I 've to say, 
 ' Vou 're mos' too old ; 
 
 Dess I '11 det into bed, 
 Toes dettin' cold. 
 
 41 
 
 THE LAST ARRIVAL. 
 
 There came to port last Sunday night 
 
 The queerest little craft, 
 Without an inch of rigging on ; 
 
 I looked and looked — and laughed ! 
 It seemed so curious that she 
 
 Should cross the unknown water 
 And moor herself within my room — 
 
 My daughter I oh, my daughter I 
 
 Yet by these presents witness all 
 
 She 's welcome fifty times, 
 And comes consigned in hope and love 
 
 And common-metre rhymes. 
 She has no manifest but this ; 
 
 No flag floats o'er the water ; 
 She 's rather new for our marine — 
 
 My daughter 1 oh, my daughter I 
 
 Ring out, wild bells, and tame ones tool 
 
 Ring out the lover's moon ! 
 Ring in the little worsted socks 1 
 
 Ring in the bib and spoon I 
 Ring out the muse ! Ring in the nurse ! 
 
 Ring in the milk and water I 
 Away with pajier, pen, and iuKl 
 
 My daughter I on, my daughter 1 
 
 THE "COMING MAN." 
 
 A PAIR of very chubby legs 
 Encased in scarlet hose ; 
 
 A pair of little stubby boots 
 With rather doubtful toes ; 
 
S ■! 
 
 m] 
 
 42 T//E HUMBLE/? POETS. 
 
 A little kilt, a little coat, 
 
 Cut as a mother can, 
 And lo ! before us strides in state 
 
 The Future's " coming man." 
 
 His eyes, perchance, will read the stars. 
 
 And search their unknown ways ; 
 Perchance the human heart and soul 
 
 Will open to their gaze ; 
 Perchance their keen and flashing glance 
 
 Will be a nation's light, — 
 Those eyes that now are wistful bent 
 
 On some " big fellow's " kite. 
 
 That brow where mighty thought will dwell 
 
 In solemn, secret state ; 
 Where fierce ambition's restless strength 
 
 Shall war with future fate ; 
 Where science from now hidden caves 
 
 New treasures shall outpour, — 
 'T is knit now with a troubled doubt, 
 
 Are two, or three cents, more ? 
 
 Those lips that, in the coming years. 
 
 Will plead, or pray, or teach ; 
 Whose whispered words, on lightning flash, 
 
 From world to world may reach ; 
 That, sternly grave, may speak command, 
 
 Or, smiling, win control, — 
 Are coaxing now for gingerbread 
 
 W^ith all a baby's soul ! 
 
 Those hands — those little busy hands — 
 
 So sticky, small, and brown. 
 Those hands, whose only mission seems 
 
 To pull all order down, — 
 Who knows what hidden strength may lie 
 
 Within their future grasp, 
 Though now 't is but a taffy-stick 
 
 In sturdy hold they clasp .'' 
 
 Ah, blessings on those little hands. 
 
 Whose work is yet undone ! 
 And blessings on those little feet, 
 
 Whose race is yet un-run ! 
 And blessings on the little brain 
 
 That has not learned to plan ! 
 Whate'er the Future hold in store, 
 
 God bless the " coming man " ! 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 43 
 
 THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT. 
 
 Oh ! the quietest home on earth had I, 
 No thought of trouble, no hint of care ; 
 
 Like a dream of pleasure the days flew by, 
 And peace had folded her pinions there. 
 
 But one day there joined in our household band 
 
 A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 Oh the despot came in the dead of night, 
 And no one ventured to ask him why ; 
 
 Like slaves we trembled before his might, 
 
 Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry ; 
 
 For never a soul could his power withstand, 
 
 That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 He ordered us here, and he sent us there, — 
 Though never a word could his small lips speak, - 
 
 With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, 
 And his helpless limbs so frail and weak ; 
 
 Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 
 
 " Go up, thou bald-head from No-man's-land ! " 
 
 But his abject slaves they turned on me ; 
 
 Like the bears in Scripture they 'd rend me there, 
 The while they worshipped on bended knee 
 
 The ruthless wretch with the missing hair ; 
 For he rules them all with relentless hand, 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 Then I searched for help in every clime, 
 For peace had fled from my dwelling now, 
 
 Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
 And now before him I made tny bow : 
 
 *' Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand. 
 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land ? " 
 
 Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare. 
 And a smile came over his features grim : 
 
 " I '11 take the tyrant under my care ; 
 
 Watch what my hour-glass does for him. 
 
 The veriest humbug that ever was planned 
 
 Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land ! " 
 
 Old Time is doing his work full well : 
 Much less of might does the tyrant wield ; 
 
 But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell 
 And sad tears fall as 1 see him yield. 
 
 Could I stay the touch of that shrivelled hand, 
 
 I would keep the bald-head from No man's-land. 
 
r 
 iif I 
 
 li 
 
 I; 
 
 ■.:l 
 
 44 THE HUMBLE/? POETS. 
 
 For the loss of peace I have ceased to care ; 
 
 Like other vassals I 've learned, forsooth, 
 To love the wretch who forgot his hair 
 
 And hurried along without a tooth ; 
 And he rules me too with his tiny hand, 
 This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 
 
 A HINT. 
 
 I 
 
 •*' i; 
 
 Our Daisy lay down 
 
 In her little nightgown, 
 And kissed me again and again, 
 
 On forehead and cheek. 
 
 On lips that would speak, 
 But found themselves shut to their gain. 
 
 Then foolish, absurd. 
 
 To utter a word, 
 I asked her the question so old, 
 
 That wife and that lover 
 
 Ask over and over, 
 As if they were surer when told. 
 
 There, close at her side, 
 
 " Do you love me } " I cried ; 
 She lifted her golden-crowned head, 
 
 A puzzled surprise 
 
 Shone in her gray eyes - - 
 " Why, that *s why I kiss you I " she said. 
 
 OUR DARLING. 
 
 Bounding like a football, 
 
 Kicking at the door ; 
 Falling from the table-top, 
 
 Sprawling on the floor ; 
 Smashing cups and saucers, 
 
 Splitting dolly's head ; 
 Putting little pussy cat 
 
 Into baby's bed ; 
 Building shops and houses, 
 
 Spoihng father's hat ; 
 Hiding mother's precious keys 
 
 Underneath the mat ; 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 Jumping on the fender, 
 
 Poking at the fire ; 
 Dancing on his little legs, — 
 
 Legs that never tire ; 
 Making mother's heart leap 
 
 Fifty times a day ; 
 Aping everything we do, 
 
 Every word we say ; 
 Shouting, laughing, tumbling, 
 
 Roaring with a will, 
 Anywhere and everywhere, 
 
 Never, never still ; 
 Present — bringing sunshine ; 
 
 Absent — leaving night ; 
 That 's our precious darling, 
 
 That 's our heart'? delight. 
 
 45 
 
 THE NEW BABY. 
 
 I 'SE a poor little sorrowful baby. 
 
 For Bidget is way down tairs. 
 The titten has statched my finder, 
 
 And dolly won't say her payers. 
 Ain't seen my bootiful mamma 
 
 Since ever so long adoe, 
 And I ain't her tunningest baby 
 
 No longer, for Bidget says so. 
 
 My niauima 's dot a new baby ; 
 
 Dod dived it, he did, yesterday ; 
 And it kies, and it kies, so defful, 
 
 I wish he would tate it away. 
 Don't want no sweet little sister, 
 
 I want my dood mamma, I do, 
 I want her to tis me, and tis me. 
 
 And tall me her pessus Lulu. 
 
 Oh, here tums nurse wis the baby 
 
 It sees me yite out of its e^'es; 
 I dess we will keep it, and dive it 
 
 Some tandy whenever it kies ; 
 I dess 1 will dive it my dolly 
 
 To play wis 'most every day ; 
 And I dess, I dess — say, Bidget, 
 
 Ask Dod not to tate it away. 
 
Ml 
 
 46 
 
 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 WASHING-DAY. 
 
 While mother is tending baby 
 
 We '11 help her all we can ; 
 For I 'm her little toddlekins, 
 
 And you 're her little man. 
 And Nell will bring the basket, 
 
 For she 's the biggest daughter, 
 And I Ml keep rubbing, rubbing, 
 
 And you '11 pour in the water. 
 And now we '11 have to hurry, 
 
 Because it 's getting late ; 
 Poor dolly is n't dressed yet, 
 
 But dolly '11 have to wait. 
 I '11 pour, and you can rub 'em, 
 
 Whichever you had rather ; 
 But seems to me, if I keep on, 
 
 We '11 get a quicker lather. 
 Maybe when mother sees us 
 
 Taking so much troubles. 
 She *11 let us put our pipes in 
 
 And blow it full of bubbles. 
 But now we '1! have to hurry, 
 
 Because it 's getting late; 
 And dolly is n't dressed yet, 
 
 But dolly '11 have to wait. 
 Hearth and Home. 
 
 BABY'S LETTER. 
 
 Dear ole untie, I dot oor letter : 
 
 My ole mammy, she ditten better. 
 
 She every day little bit stronger. 
 
 Don't mea i to be sick berry much longer. 
 
 Daddy 's so fat, can't hardly stagger ; 
 Mammy says he jinks too much lager. 
 Dear little baby had a bad colic. 
 Had to take tree drops nassy paleygolic 
 
 Toot a dose of tatnip, felt worse as ever. 
 Sha'n't take no more tatnip, never 1 
 Wind on stomit, felt pooty bad. 
 Worse fit of sickness ever I had 1 
 
 Ever had belly-ate, ole untie Bill ? 
 'T ain't no fun now, say what 00 will. 
 I used to sleep all day and cry all night j 
 Don't do so now, 'cause 't ain't yite. 
 
 t 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 But I 'm growin', gettin' pooty fat, 
 Gains 'must two pounds, only tink o' datl 
 Little flannen blankets was too big before. 
 Nurse can't pin me in 'cm no more. 
 
 Skirts so small, baby so stout, 
 Had to let the plaits in 'em all out. 
 Got a head of hair jes' as black as nite; 
 And big boo eyes, yat ook mighty bite. 
 
 My mammy says, never did see 
 Any ozzer baby half as sweet as nie. 
 Grandma comes often, Aunt Sarah too; 
 Baby loves yem, baby loves oo. 
 
 Baby sends a pooty kiss to his unties all. 
 Aunties and cousins, — big folks and small. 
 Caii't yite no more, so dood-by, 
 Bully ole untie with a glass eye. 
 
 47 
 
 MY LOST BABY. 
 
 Comes little Maud and stands by my knee. 
 Her soft eyes filled with a troubled joy ; 
 
 And her wondering heart is ])erplcxed to see 
 Her babyhood lost in our baby boy. 
 
 For Maud was a babe but a week ago, — 
 
 A gentle, lovable, clinging thing ; 
 Now we are saddened but pleased to know 
 
 The queen is dethroned and there reigns a king, — 
 
 A tiny king, with a cheek like down ; 
 
 With dark, indefinite-colored eyes ; 
 With hair of the softest satiny brown ; 
 
 Who doubles his fists and hiccoughs and cries ; 
 
 Who groans, grimaces, and paws the air. 
 
 And twists his mouth in a meaningless smile ; 
 
 Who fixes his eyes in a winkless stare. 
 And seems in the deepest thought the while ; 
 
 A wee 3mall king with a comical fnce. 
 
 Whom one moment we laugh at, the next caress ; 
 A little monarch who holds his place 
 
 By the wondrous might of his helplessness. 
 
48 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Come hither, my Maud, with your wistful eyes ; 
 
 Come hither, I 'II hiy the small tyrant down ; 
 I Ml gather you up in a glad surprise, 
 
 And press to my bosom your head of brown. 
 
 Nestle down close to your mother's breast, 
 Poor little babe of a week gone by ; 
 
 Find for a moment a haven of rest, — 
 Clasping my neck with a satisfied sigh. 
 
 Alas ! I have lost her, she is no more 
 The baby girl that I loved to press 
 
 Close to my heart ; she 's a woman before 
 This animate atom of helplessness. 
 
 My heart is sad for my girl to-day ; 
 
 In a moment babyhood's privileged years 
 Have passed from her life forever away, — 
 
 We see them vanish through misty tears. 
 
 Farewell, sweet babe of a week agone I 
 Thou hast reached the land of the nevermore, 
 
 And Maud's little feet are standing on 
 The perilous heights of childhood's shore. 
 
 <: A 
 
 ■1 
 
 A BABY'S RATTLE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Only a baby's rattle, 
 
 And yet it you offered me gold 
 More than my heart could dream of, 
 
 Or jewels my hand could hold, 
 
 For that worthless toy, I should answer, 
 
 You cannot buy the tears 
 Of love and joy, the remembrance 
 
 Of all that it means for all years. 
 
 The old associations 
 
 Of the years that have waned and filed 
 Lie there with the childish token 
 
 That was clasped by a hand thiit is dead. 
 
 And beyond all earthly treasures 
 That prowess or brain could win, 
 
 I prize that worn old plaything 
 For the memories shrined therein. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLIC. 
 
 There may be hope in the future 
 With its dreams too bright to last, 
 
 13ut they lack the consecration 
 That clings round thoughts of the past. 
 
 49 
 
 II. 
 
 She came when the May-time scattered 
 
 Mav-buds upon holt and lea : 
 And the glint of the sunshine seemed sweeter, 
 
 And a new song was sung by the sea. 
 
 'T was a page from the book of Creation, 
 With an imprint I knew was divine. 
 
 And I felt the infinite yearning 
 
 For the new life sprung from mine. 
 
 Ah me ! how we loved our blossom ! 
 
 And it scarce seems days ago 
 That she crowed and laughed in the summer, 
 
 And faded in winter snow. 
 
 It seems liV" a vision remembered 
 Of a death in unrestful sleep, 
 
 When fearsome thoughts come upon you 
 As storms brood over the deep. 
 
 And whenever I hear the laughter 
 That rings from a child at play, 
 
 I think of our dear dead snowdrop, — 
 And it seems but yesterday. 
 
 1 1 
 
 III. 
 
 The May-time had changed to summer, 
 And the roses of autumn come. 
 
 The birds sung blithe in the branches, 
 But blither the birdie at home. 
 
 The cynic may sneer at tlie feeling, 
 For a cold, hard creed is rife ; 
 
 But I know that my love for my darling 
 Was my purest thought in life. 
 
 She grew with the suromer's fruitage. 
 But in warm autumnal davs, 
 
 She faded, it seemed like the leaflets 
 That strewed the woodland ways. 
 
 4 
 
5© THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 It was hard to mark, and still harder 
 To think that the hopes we kept 
 
 Must he buried away with old fancies, 
 And dreams that in silence slept. 
 
 Were we never to see her joyous 
 In childhood's innocent play? 
 
 Ah, no I she was called, and left us — 
 And it seems but yesterday. 
 
 IV. 
 
 At last — how well I remember 
 The long and lingering night, 
 
 When we watched by the tiny cradle 
 Till the morning's earliest light ; 
 
 And then when the desolate morning 
 Shone cold through the winter bars, 
 
 Lo ! God had taken our snowdrop 
 To blossom beyond the stars. 
 
 It was hard to bow in submission 
 
 When we thought of the vacant place. 
 
 And there within the cradle 
 The white little baby face. 
 
 Only one thought could comfort, 
 
 The echo of words divine, 
 That, tender as any mother, 
 
 13y the waters of Palestine, 
 
 He spake, who bade the children 
 Draw near on the sacred sod. 
 
 When he stretched out hands of blessing, 
 " Of such is the kingdom of God." 
 
 WATCHING FOR PAPA. 
 
 She always stood upon the steps 
 
 Just by the cottage door. 
 Waiting to kiss me when I came 
 
 Each night home from the store. 
 Her eyes were like two glorious stars. 
 
 Dancing in heaven's own blue — 
 " Papa," she 'd call like a wee bird, 
 
 " / 'j looten out for oo I " 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 Alas I how sadly do our lives 
 
 Change as we onward roam I 
 For now no birdie voice calls out 
 
 To bid me welcome home. 
 No little hands stretched out for me, 
 
 No blue eyes dancing bright, 
 No baby face peeps from the door 
 
 When I come home at night. 
 
 And yet there 's comfort in the thought 
 
 That when life's toil is o'er, 
 And passing through the sable flood 
 
 I gain the brighter shore, 
 My little angel at the gate. 
 
 With eyes divinely blue, 
 Will call with birdie voice, " Papa, 
 
 I's loot en tit for oo!" 
 
 51 
 
 MATTIE'S WANTS AND WISHES. 
 
 I WANTS a piece of talito 
 To make my doll a dress ; 
 
 I does n't want a big piece — 
 A yard '11 do, I guess. 
 
 I wish you 'd fred my needle. 
 And find my fimble, too — 
 
 I has such heaps o' sowin', 
 I don't know what to do. 
 
 \\ 
 
 My Hepsy tored her apron 
 A tum'lin' down the stair ; 
 
 And Caesar 's lost his pantaloons, 
 And needs anozzer pair. 
 
 I wants my Maud a bonnet. 
 She has n't none at all ; 
 
 And Fred must have a jacket, 
 His uzzer one 's too small. 
 
 I wants to go to grandma's, 
 You promised me I might ; 
 
 I know she '11 like to see me - 
 I wants to go to-night. 
 
 She lets me wash the dishes. 
 And see in grandpa's watch ■ 
 
 Wish I 'd free, four pennies. 
 To buy some butter-scotch. 
 
52 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I wants some newer mittens, 
 I wi^li you 'd knit me some, 
 
 'Cause 'most my fin}:;cr.s freezes, 
 They leak so in the fum. 
 
 I worcd it out last summer 
 A-pulIin' Gcon;;c's sled ; 
 
 I wish you wouldn't laugh so — 
 It hurts me in my head. 
 
 I wish I had a cooky — 
 I 'm hungry 's I can be ; 
 
 If you has n't i)retty large ones, 
 You 'd better bring me free. 
 
 GRAN'MA AL'US DOES. 
 
 I WANTS to mend my wagon, 
 
 And has to have some nails ; 
 Just two, free will be plenty; 
 
 Wc 're goin' to haul our rails. 
 The splendidest cob fences 
 
 We 're makin' ever wp.s I 
 I wis' you 'd help us find 'em — 
 
 Gran'ma al'us does. 
 
 My horse's name is " Betsey ; " 
 
 She jumped and broke her head, 
 I put her in the stable 
 
 And fed her milk and bread ; 
 The stable 's in the parlor, — 
 
 We didn't make no muss ; 
 I wis' you 'd let it stay there — 
 
 Gran'ma al'us does. 
 
 I 's goin' to the cornfield 
 
 To ride on Charlie's plough, 
 I spect he 'd like to have me — 
 
 I wants to go right now. 
 Oh, won't I " gee-up " awful. 
 
 And " whoa " like Charlie whoas I 
 I wis' you would n't bozzer — 
 
 Gran'ma never does. 
 
 I wants some bread and butter, 
 
 I 's hungry worstest kind ; 
 But Freddy must n't have none -^ 
 
 'Cause he wouldn't mind. 
 Put plenty of sugar on it ; 
 
 I '11 tell you what I knows : 
 It 's right to put on sugar — 
 
 Gran'ma al'us does. 
 
 life' 
 
AMO.VG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 53 
 
 THE UNFINISHED PRAYER. 
 
 *' Now I lav." — repeat it, darling. 
 
 " J ay me," lisped the tiny lips 
 Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
 
 O'er her folded finger-tips. 
 
 '* Down to sleep " — " To sleep," she murmured, 
 
 And the curly head bent low; 
 " I pray the Lord," I gently added ; 
 
 You can say it all, I know. 
 
 " Pray the I>ord" — the sound came faintly, 
 Fainter still — " My soul to keep ; " 
 
 Then the tired head fairly nodded, 
 And the child was fast asleep. 
 
 But the dewy eyes half opened 
 
 When I clasped her to my breast, 
 And the dear voice softly whisi)cred, 
 
 " Mamma, God knows all the rest." 
 
 Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
 Of the child heart ! Would that I 
 
 Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
 He who hears my feeblest cry. 
 
 NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 
 
 Golden head so lowly bending, 
 Little feet so white and bare, 
 
 Dewy eyes, half shut, half opened, 
 Lisping out her evening prayer. 
 
 Well she knows when she is saying, 
 " Now I lay me down to sleep," 
 
 'T is to God that she is praying, — 
 Praying him her soul to keep. 
 
 Half asleep, and murmuring family, 
 " If I should die before I wake," — 
 
 Tiny fingers clasped so saintly, — 
 " I pray the Lord my soul to take." 
 
54 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 il 
 
 Oh the rapture, sweet, unbroken, 
 Of the soul who wrote that prayer I 
 
 Children's myriad voices floating 
 Up to heaven record it there. 
 
 If, of all that has been written, 
 
 I could choose what might be mine, 
 
 It should be that child's petition, 
 Rising to the throne divine. 
 
 A LITTLE GIRL'S CURIOSITY. 
 
 My ma 's been working very hard 
 
 And also very sly, 
 And keeps her sewing out of sight 
 
 Whenever I am nigh. 
 I asked her once what made her stop 
 
 Her work when I came in ; 
 She said she only stopped to get 
 
 A needle, thread, or pin. 
 
 The bureau-drawer next to mine 
 
 Is locked hoth night and day. 
 And when ma wants to open it 
 
 She sends me off to play. 
 I stole a peep one afternoon, 
 
 Although it was not right ; 
 But oh, the little things I saw 
 
 Were such a pretty sight ! 
 
 The cutest, nicest little clothes, 
 
 Just big enough for doll ; 
 But then I know they 're not for her, 
 
 She needs them not at all. 
 1 know they 're not for ma nor pa. 
 
 Nor me, nor brother " Hoi " 
 For wc can't wear such little clothes — 
 
 I wonder who they 're for ? 
 
 I " 
 
 
 THAT BOY. 
 
 Is the house turned topsy-turvy ? 
 
 Does it ring from street to roof ? 
 Will the racket still continue, 
 
 Spite of all your mild reproof? 
 Are you often in a flutter ? 
 
 Are you sometimes thrilled with joy ? 
 Then I have my grave suspicions 
 
 That you ha\ e at home — that Boy. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 Are your walls and tables hammered ? 
 
 Are your nerves and ink upset ? 
 Have two eyes, so bright and roguish, 
 
 Made you every care forget ? 
 Have your garden beds u prowler 
 
 Who delights but to destroy ? 
 These are well-known indications 
 
 That you have at home — that Boy. 
 
 Have you seen him playing circus 
 
 With his head upon the mat, 
 And his heels in mid-air twinkling — 
 
 For his audience, the cat? 
 Do you ever stop to listen, 
 
 When his merry pranks annoy, — 
 Listen to a voice that whispers, 
 
 You were once just like — that Boy 
 
 Have you heard of broken windows, 
 
 And with nobody to blame? 
 Have you seen a trousered urchin 
 
 Quite unconscious of the same ? 
 Do you love a teasing mixture 
 
 Of perplexity and joy ? 
 You may have a dozen daughters, 
 
 But I know you 'vc got — wiat Boy. 
 
 55 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S BEDTIME. 
 
 The clock strikes seven in the hall. 
 The curfew of the children's dav, 
 That calls each little pattering foot 
 
 From dance and song and livelong play; 
 Their day, that in our wider light 
 Floats like a silver day-moon white. 
 Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, 
 But sinks within a golden west. 
 
 Ah, tender hour that sends a drift 
 
 Of children's kisses through the house. 
 And cuckoo-r.otes of sweet " (Jood-night," 
 
 And thoughts of home and heaven arouse ; 
 And a soft stir of .sense and heart, 
 As when the bee and blossom jiart; 
 And little feet that iiatler slower, 
 LiUc the last droppings of the shower. 
 
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 56 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And in the children's rooms aloft 
 
 What blossom shapes do gayly slip 
 Their dainty sheaths, and rosy run 
 
 From clasping hand and kissing lip. 
 A naked sweetness to the eye — 
 Blossom and babe and butterfly 
 In witching one so dear a sight I 
 An ecstasy of life and light. 
 
 And, ah, what lovely witcheries 
 
 Bestrew the floor, — an empty sock, 
 By vanished dance and song left loose 
 As dead bird's throat ; a tiny smock 
 That, sure, upon some meadow grew. 
 And drank the heaven-sweet rains ; a shoe 
 Scarce bigger than an acorn-cup ; 
 Frocks that seem flowery meads cut up. 
 
 Then lily-drest in angel-white 
 
 To mother's knee they trooping come ; 
 The soft palms fold like kissing shells, 
 
 And they and we go shining home, — 
 Their bright heads bowed and woi-shipping 
 As though some glory of the spring, 
 Some dalfodil that mocks the day, 
 Should fold his golden palms and pray. 
 
 And gates of Paradise swing wide 
 A moment's space in soft accord. 
 And those dread angels, Life and Death, 
 
 A moment veil the flaming sword, 
 As o'er the weary world forlorn 
 From Eden's secret heart is borne 
 That breath of Paradise most fair, 
 Which mothers call the " children's prayer." 
 
 Ah, deep, pathetic mystery ! 
 
 The world's great woe unconscious hung, 
 A rain-drop on a blossom's lip. 
 
 White innocence that woos our wrong. 
 And love divine that looks again, 
 Unconscious of the cross and pain. 
 From sweet child-eyes, and in that child 
 Sad earth and heaven reconciled. 
 
 Then, kissed, on beds we lay them down, 
 
 As fragrant-white as clover's sod ; 
 And all the upper floors grow hushed 
 
 With children's sleep, and dews of God. 
 And as our stars their beams do hide. 
 The stars of twilight, opening wide. 
 Take up the heavenly tale at even, 
 And light us on to God and heaven. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 57 
 
 THE CHILDREN'S MUSIC. 
 
 We asked where the magic came from 
 
 That made her so woiuhous fair, 
 As she stood with the sunlight touching 
 
 Her gloss of golden hair. 
 And her blue eyes looked toward heaven 
 
 As though they could see God there. 
 " Hush ! " said the child, *' can't you hear it, 
 
 The music that 's everywhere ? " 
 
 God help us ! we could not hear it, 
 
 Our hearts were heavy with pain ; 
 We heard men toiling and wrangling. 
 
 We heard the whole world complain ; 
 And the sound of a mocking laughter 
 
 We heard again and again, 
 But we lost all faith in the music. 
 
 We had listened so long in vain. 
 
 "Can't you hear it?" the young child whispered, 
 
 And sadly we answered, " No. 
 We might have fancied we heard it 
 
 In the days of long ago ; 
 But the music is all a delusion, 
 
 Our reason has told us so. 
 And you will forget that you heard it, 
 
 When you know the sound of woe." 
 
 Then one spoke out from among us 
 
 Who had nothing left to fear; 
 Who had given his life for others, 
 
 And been repaid with a sneer. 
 And his face was lit with a glory, 
 
 And his voice was calm and clear; , 
 
 And he said, " I can hear the music 
 
 Which the little children hear." 
 
 CREEPING UP THE STAIRS. 
 
 In the soft falling twilight 
 
 Of a weary, weary day, 
 With a quiet step I entered 
 
 Where the children were at play ; 
 I was brooding o'er some trouble 
 
 Which had met me unawares, 
 When a little voice came ringing : 
 
 " Me is creeping up the stairs." 
 
iff' 
 
 ih ii 
 
 - I 
 
 $8 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Ah, it touched the tenclerest heart-strings 
 
 With a breath and force divine, 
 And such melodies awakened, 
 
 As no wording can define. 
 And I turned to see our darling, — 
 
 All forgetful of my cares, 
 When I saw the little creature 
 
 Slowly creeping up the stairs. 
 
 Step by step she slowly clambered 
 
 On her little hands and knees. 
 Keeping up a constant chatter, 
 
 Like a magpie in the trees, 
 Till at 1; t she reached the topmost, 
 
 WhcL. ''er all her world's affairs, 
 She, vlelighted, stood a victor 
 
 After creeping up the stairs. 
 
 Fainting heart, behold an image 
 
 Of man's brief and stru-^^ling life. 
 Whose best prizes must j captured 
 
 With a noble, earnest strife ; 
 Onward, upward, reaching ever, 
 
 Bending to the weight of cares. 
 Hoping, fearing, still expecting, 
 
 We go creeping up the stairs. 
 
 On their steps may be no carpet, 
 
 By their side may be no rail. 
 Hands and knees may often pain us, 
 
 And the heart may almost fail ; 
 Still above there is the glory 
 
 Which no sinfulness impairs, 
 With its rest and joy forever. 
 
 After creeping up the stairs. 
 
 Burlington Ilazukeye. Rev. W. S. McFetridge. 
 
 LITTLE GOLDENHAIR. 
 
 GoLDENHAlR climbed upon grandpapa's knee! 
 Dear little Goldcnhair ! tired was she — 
 All the day busy as busy could be I 
 
 Up in the morning as soon as 'twas light — 
 Up with the birds and butterflies bright, 
 Skipping about till the coming of night. 
 
 Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head ; 
 " What has my darling been doing?" he said, 
 " Since she rose, with the sun, from her bed? " 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 59 
 
 " Pitty much ! " answered the sweet little one ; 
 " I cannot tell — so much things I have done: 
 Played with my dolly and feeded my bun. 
 
 " And then I jumped with my little jump-rope, 
 And I made bubbles out of some water and soap — 
 Bootiful worlds ! mamma's castles of hope ! 
 
 " I afterwards readed in my picture-book ; 
 
 And Bella and I we went out to look 
 
 For the smooth little fishes by the side of the brook. 
 
 "And then I came home and eated my tea, 
 And climbed up on grandpapa's knee ; 
 And I jes as tired as tired can be I " 
 
 Lower and lower the little head pressed, 
 Until it had dropped upon grandpapa's breast ! 
 Dear little Goldenhair! sweet be thy rest 1 
 
 We are but children ; the things that we do 
 Are as sports of a babe to the Infinite view, 
 That marks all our weakness, and pities it, too. 
 
 God grant that when night overshadows our way, 
 And we shall be called to account for our day. 
 He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair lay ! 
 
 And oh ! when aweary, may we be so blest v 
 
 As to sink lii:e the innocent child to our rest. 
 
 And to feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast ! 
 
 BEAUTIFUL GRANDMAMMA, 
 
 Grandmamma sits in her quaint arm-chair, — 
 Never was lady more sweet and fair I 
 Her gray locks ripple like silver shells, 
 And her brow its own calm story tells 
 Of a gentle life and a peaceful even, 
 A trust in God and a hope in heaven ! 
 
 Little girl Mary sits rocking away 
 
 In her own low seat, like some winsome fay; 
 
 Two djlly babies her kisses share, 
 
 And another one lies by the side of her chair 
 
 Mary is fair as 'he morning dew — 
 
 Chceko of roses and ribbons of blue I 
 
1 
 
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 60 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 " Say, grandmamma," says the pretty elf, 
 
 " Tell me a stciy about yourself. 
 
 "When you were little what did you play ? 
 
 Was you good or naughty, the whole long day ? 
 
 Was it hundreds and hundreds of years ago ? 
 
 And what makes your soft hair as white as snow ? 
 
 " Did you have a mamma to hug and kiss ? 
 And a dolly like this, and this, and this ? 
 Did you have a pussy like my little Kate ? 
 Did you go to bed when the clock struck eight? 
 Did you have long curls and beads like mine? 
 And a new silk apron, with ribbons fine ? " 
 
 Grandmamma smiled at the little maid, 
 And laying aside her knitting, she said: 
 " Go to my desk and a red box you '11 see ; 
 Carefully lift it and bring it to me." 
 So Mary put her dollies away and ran, 
 Saying, " I '11 be as careful as ever I can." 
 
 Then grandmamma opened the box : and lo 1 
 A beautiful child with throat like snow, 
 Lips just tinted like pink shells rare. 
 Eyes of hazel and golden hair, 
 Hands all dimpled, and teeth like pearls — 
 Fairest and sweetest of little girls I 
 
 " Oh, who is it ? " cried winsome May ; 
 
 " How I wish she was here to-day I 
 
 Would n't I love her '.ike everything. 
 
 And give her my new carnelian ring ! 
 
 Say, dear grandmamma, who can she be?" 
 
 " Darling," said grandmamma, " that child was me I " 
 
 May looked long at the dimpled grace. 
 
 And then at the saint-like, fair old face. 
 
 •' How funny ! " she cried, with a smile and a kiss, 
 
 " To have such a dear little grandma as this ! 
 
 Still," she added, with a smiling zest, 
 
 " I think, dear" grandma, I like you best 1 " 
 
 So May climbed on the silken knee. 
 
 And grandma told her her history — 
 
 What plays she played, what toys she had. 
 
 How at times she was nauchty, or good, or sad. 
 
 " But the best thing you did," said May, " don't you see? 
 
 Was to grow a beautiful grandma for me ! " 
 
AAfONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 67 
 
 THE BABY OVER THE WAY. 
 
 Across in my neighbor's window, 
 
 With its drapings of satin and lace, 
 I see, 'neath a crcnvn of ringlets, 
 
 A baby's innocent face. 
 His feet in their wee red slippers 
 
 Are tapping the polished glass, 
 And the crowd in the street look upward, 
 
 And nod and smile as they pass. 
 
 Just here in viy cottage window. 
 
 In the rays of the noonday sun. 
 With a patch on his faded apron, 
 
 Stands my own little one. 
 His face is as pure and handsome 
 
 As the baby's over the way, 
 And he keeps my heart from breaking 
 
 At my toiling every day. 
 
 Sometimes when the day is ended. 
 
 And I sit in the dusk to rest, 
 With the face of my sleepy darling 
 
 Hugged close to my lonely breast, 
 I pray that my neighbor's baby 
 
 May not catch heaven's roses, all ; 
 But that some may crown the forehead 
 
 Of my loved one as they fall. 
 
 And when I draw the stockings 
 
 From his little tired feet, 
 And kiss the rosy dimples 
 
 In his limbs so round and sweet, 
 I think of the dainty garments 
 
 Some little children wear, 
 And frown that my God withholds them 
 
 From mine, so pure and fair. 
 
 May God forgive my envy, 
 
 I knew not what I said ; 
 My heart is crushed and humbled : 
 
 My neighbor's boy is dead. 
 I saw the little cofiin 
 
 As they carried it out to-day ; 
 A mother's heart is breaking 
 
 In the mansion over the way. 
 
 The light is fair in my window. 
 The blossoms bloom at my door ; 
 
 My boy is chasing the sunbeams 
 That dance on the cottage floor ; 
 
62 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The roses of health are blushing 
 (in my darling's cheek to-clay ; 
 But baby is gone from the window 
 . Of the house that 's over the way. 
 
 FRED ENGLEHARDT'S BABY. 
 
 Dru as I leev, most efry day 
 I laugh me wild to saw der way 
 My schmall young baby dries to play — 
 Dot funny leetle baby. 
 
 When I look of dem leetle toes, 
 Und saw dot funny leetle nose, 
 Und hear der way dot rooster crows — 
 I schmile like 1 vas grazy. 
 
 Sometimes der comes a leetle shquall, 
 Dots ven der vindy vind does crawl 
 Right in his leetle shtomach schmall — 
 Dot 's too bad for der baby. 
 
 Dot makes him sing at night so shweet, 
 Und gorryparric he must eat, 
 Und 1 must chump shpry on my feet 
 To help dot leetle baby. 
 
 He bulls my nose und kicks my hair, 
 Und crawls me ofer everywhere, 
 Und schlobber me — but what I care ? 
 
 Dot vas my schmall young baby. 
 
 Around my head dot leetle arm 
 
 Vas shquozh me all so nice und warm. 
 
 Oh, may dere never come some harm 
 
 To dot schmall leetle baby. 
 
 Charles Follen Adams. 
 
 LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. 
 
 I HAF a vunny leedle poy 
 
 Vat gomes schust to my knee ; 
 Der queerest schap, der greatest rogue 
 
 As efer you did see. 
 He runs und jumps und smashes dings 
 
 In all parts of der house, — 
 But what of dot ? He vas mine son, 
 
 Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 '■■' 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK'. 63 
 
 He get der measles unci der mumbs, 
 
 Und et'eryding dot 's out ; 
 He spills mine glass of lager beer, 
 
 Puts schnuff into mine kraut ; 
 He fills mine pipe with Limburg cheese — 
 
 Dot vas der roughest chouse ; 
 I 'd dake dot from no oder p-iy 
 
 But leedle Yawcob Strau^;-. 
 
 He dakes der milkpan for a drum, 
 ^ Und cuts mine cane in dwo. 
 
 To make der shticks to beat it mit — 
 
 Mine cracious, dot vas drue I 
 I dinks mine iiead vas schplit abart, 
 
 He kicks up such a touse, — 
 But nefer mind, der poys vas few 
 
 Like dot schmall Yawcob Strauss. 
 
 He asks me questions sooch as dese : 
 
 Who baints mine nose so red ? 
 Who vas it cut dot schmoot blace oudt 
 
 Vrom der hair upon my head ? 
 Und vere der plaze goes vrom der lamp 
 
 Vene'er der glim I douse ? — 
 How gan I all dese tings eggsblain 
 
 To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss ? 
 
 I somedimes dink I schall go vild 
 
 Mid sooch a grazy poy, 
 Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest 
 
 Und beaseful dimes enshoy ; 
 But ven he vas aschleep in bed, 
 
 So quiet as a mouse, 
 I brays der Lord, " Dake anydings, 
 
 But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." 
 Indianapolis Sentinel. Charles Follen Adams. 
 
 THE GOODEST MOTHER. 
 
 Evening was falling, cold and dark, 
 And people hurried along the way 
 
 As if they were longing soon to mark 
 Their own home candle's cheering ray. 
 
 Before me toiled in the whirling wind 
 A woman with bundles great and small, 
 
 And after her tugged, a step behind. 
 The Bundle she loved the best of all. 
 
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 64 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A clear little rolly-poly boy 
 
 With rosy cheeks, and a jacket blue, 
 
 Laughing and chattering full of joy, 
 And here 's what he said — I tell you true : 
 
 " You 're the goodest mother that ever was." 
 
 A voice as clear as a forest bird's ; 
 And I 'm sure the glad young heart had cause 
 To ui.ci the sweet of the lovely words. 
 
 Perhaps the woman had worked all day 
 
 Washing or scrubbing ; perhaps she sewed ; 
 
 I knew, by her weary footfall's way. 
 That life for her was an uphill road. 
 
 But here was a comfort. Children dear, 
 Think what a comfort you might give 
 
 To the very best friend you can hav, here, 
 The lady fair in whose house you live, 
 
 If once in a while you 'd stop and say, — 
 In task or play for a moment pause, 
 
 And tell her in sweet and winning way, 
 
 " You 're the goodest mother that ever was." 
 
 >S 
 
 I 
 
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 ii 
 
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 in '■ 
 
 THE COB HOUSE. 
 
 Willy and Charley, eight and ten, 
 
 Were under the porch in the noonday heat ; 
 
 I could see and hear the little men. 
 Unseen, myself, in the window-seat. 
 
 Will on a cob house was hard at work, 
 With a zeal that was funny enough to me. 
 
 At eight one has hardly learned to shirk; 
 That comes later, — as you will see. 
 
 For Charley, by virtue of riper age. 
 Did nothing but stand and criticise ; 
 
 His hands in his pockets, stage by stage 
 He watched the tottering castle rise. 
 
 " And now, after all your fuss," says he, 
 " S'posin' it tumbles down again ? " 
 
 " Oh," Will answers as cool as could be, 
 " Of course I should build it better then." 
 
 Charley shook sagely his curly head. 
 Opened his eyes of dancing brown. 
 
 And then for a final poser said, 
 
 " But s'posin' it always kept tumblin' down ? " 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 6S 
 
 Will, however, was not of the stuff 
 
 At a loss to be taken so. 
 " Why, then," he answered ready enough, 
 " I should keep on building it better, you know." 
 
 And, seeing the wise world's wirtst knot 
 Cut at a stroke with such simple skill, 
 
 Older people than Charley, I thought, 
 Might learn a lesson of Master Will. 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood. 
 
 CARD HOUSES. 
 
 My little niece and I — I read 
 
 My Plato in my easy-chair ; 
 And she was building on the floor 
 
 A pack of cards with wondrous care. 
 
 We worked in silence, but alas ! 
 
 Among the cards a mighty spill, 
 And then the little ape exclaimed, 
 
 " Well I Such is life I Look, Uncle Will 
 
 I gave a start and dropped my book, — 
 It was the " Phaedo " I had read, — 
 
 A sympathetic current thrilled 
 Like lightning through my heart and head. 
 
 I eyed with curious awe the child, 
 The unconscious Sibyl, where she sat, 
 
 Whose thoughtless tongue could babble forth 
 Strange parables of life and fate. 
 
 Yet such is life I a Babel house, 
 A common doom hath tumbled all. 
 
 King, queen, and knave, and plain and trump, 
 A motley crew in motley fall ! 
 
 We rear our hopes, no Pharaoh's tomb, 
 Nor brass, could build so sjure a name, 
 
 But, soon or late, a sad collapse, 
 And great the ruin of the same. 
 
 A (. such is life I Oh, sad and strange 
 That love and wisdom so ordain ! 
 
 ' jme ere the builder's hands have yet 
 One card against another lain ; 
 6 
 
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 66 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Some when the house is tiny still ; 
 
 Some when you 've built a little more ; 
 And some when patience hath achieved 
 
 A second, third, or higher floor. 
 
 Or should you win the topmost stage, 
 Yet is the strength but toil and pain — 
 
 And here the tiny voice rejoined, 
 *' But I can build it up again." 
 
 My height of awe was reached. Can babes 
 Behold what reason scans in vain .-' 
 
 Ah. childhood is divine, I thought, — 
 Yes, Lizzie, build it up again. 
 
 A^c York Graphic. 
 
 BERTIE'S PHILOSOPHY. 
 
 Small boy Bertie, 
 
 Drummnig on the pane, 
 Looking at the chickens 
 
 Draggled with the rain. 
 
 Little philosopher 
 
 Wrinkles his brow. 
 Says, " I wonder — 
 
 t don't see how. 
 
 " Where do chickens come from .' 
 
 Mamma, please to tell. 
 Yes, I know they come from eggs. 
 
 Know that very well. 
 
 "Course the old hen hatched 'em, 
 
 I know that ; but then — 
 Won't you tell me truly. 
 
 Where 'd they get the hen ? 
 
 " S'posin' you were my boy, 
 
 All the one I had, 
 And big folks would n't tell you things, 
 
 Should n't you feel bad ? 
 
 " Every single thing you say 
 
 I knew years ago ; 
 Where that first hen came from, 
 
 Is what I want to know." 
 
 Providence yournal. 
 
 Eva M. Tappan. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 67 
 
 BOYS' RIGHTS. 
 
 I WONDER now if any one 
 
 In this broad land has heard 
 In favor of downtrodden boys 
 
 One solitary word ? 
 Wc hear enough of '* woman's rights," 
 
 And " rights of workingmen," 
 Of "equal rights," and "nation's rights," 
 
 But i^ray just tell us when 
 Boys' /?/i//its were ever spoken of? 
 
 Why, wc 'vc l)econie so used 
 To being snubbed by every one, 
 
 And slighted and abused, 
 That when one is polite to us, 
 
 We open wide our eyes. 
 And stretch them in astonishment 
 
 To nearly twice their si/e I 
 Boys seldom dare to ask their friends 
 
 oys : 
 To venture in the house 
 
 It don't come natural at all 
 
 To creep round like a mouse. 
 And if we should forget ourselves 
 
 And make a little noise, 
 Then ma or auntie sure would say, 
 
 " Oh, my ! those dreadful boys 1 " 
 The girls bang on the piano 
 
 In peace, but if the boys 
 Attempt a tr.ne with fife and drum, 
 
 It 's " Stop that horrid noise ! " 
 "That horrid noise !" just think of it, 
 
 When sister never fails 
 To make a noise three times as bad 
 
 With everlasting "scales." 
 Insulted thus, we lose no time 
 
 In beating a retreat ; 
 So off we go to romp and tear 
 
 And scamper in the street. 
 No wonder that so many boys 
 
 Such wicked men become ; 
 'T were better far to let them have 
 
 Their plays and galnes at home. 
 Perhaps that text the teacher quotes 
 
 Sonietim.es, — "Train up a child," — 
 Means only, train the little girls. 
 
 And let the boys run wild. 
 But patience, and the time shall come 
 
 When we will all be men. 
 And when it does, T rather think 
 
 Wrongs will be righted then. 
 
 Carrie May. 
 
:( 
 
 l!*' 
 
 68 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 ROSEBUD'S FIRST BALL. 
 
 " 'T IS really time you were out, I think," 
 Said Lady Rose to her daughter small ; 
 
 " So I '11 send my invitations round, 
 And give you, my dear, a splendid ball. 
 
 " We 'd best decide on your toilet first ; 
 
 Your sister Jacquemmot wore dark red ; 
 But you are so much smaller than she, 
 
 I think you must wear pale pink instead. 
 
 "Then, whom to in"ite : we can't ask all, 
 
 And yet it 's hardest of all to tell 
 The flowers from weeds. Indeed, last year 
 
 I snubbed Field Daisy, and now she s a belle. 
 
 " We Ml ask the Pansies, they 're always in 
 
 The best society everywhere ; 
 The Lilies, Heliotropes, and Pinks, 
 
 Geraniums, Fuchsias, must sure be there. 
 
 " Miss Mignonette is so very plain, 
 
 A favorite, though, — I '11 put her down ; 
 
 The Violets, I think, are away; 
 They 're always the first to leave for town. 
 
 " The Larkspurs are such old fashioned things 
 It 's not worth while asking them to come ; 
 
 The Zinnias are coarse, Bergamots stiff. 
 The Marigolds better off at home. 
 
 " Miss Morning Glory I'd like to ask, 
 But then, she never goes out at night ; 
 
 She 's such a delicate thing, she says, 
 She scarce can bear a very strong light. 
 
 "The Verbenas, I know, will be put out 
 If we don't ask them ; the Petunias, too. 
 
 They are not quite an fait, but then, my dear, 
 They 're such near neighbors, what 's one to do ? 
 
 " Jl li make out my list' at once, for there 
 
 A butterfly is coming this way ; 
 I 'II send my invitations !)y him, — 
 
 He '11 go the rounds without delay. 
 
 " Dear I dear I to think that to-n.orrow night 
 You'll really be out. Now listen, my child : 
 
 Don't go much with your cousin Sweet Brier ; 
 He 's very nice, but inclined to be wild." 
 
 Neio Vi>rl' Star. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK'. 
 
 69 
 
 THE LITTLE CONQUEROR. 
 
 " 'T WAS midnight ; not a sound was heard 
 Within the" — " Papa, won't 'ou '00k 
 
 An' see my pooty 'ittlc house ? 
 
 I wis' 'ou would n't wead 'ou book — " 
 
 " Within the pahice where the king 
 Upon his coucii in anguish lay — " 
 
 " Papa, pa-pa, I wis' 'ou 'd tum 
 An' have a 'ittle tonty play — " 
 
 " No gentle hand was there to brine 
 The cooling draught, or cool his orow ; 
 
 His courtiers and his pages gone — " 
 " Tum, papa, tum ; I want 'ou now — " 
 
 Down goes the book with needless force, 
 And with expression far from mild ; 
 
 With sullen air and clouded brow 
 I seat myself beside my child. 
 
 Her little trusting eyes of blue 
 With mute surprise gaze in my face, 
 
 As if in its expression stern 
 Reproof and censure she could trace. 
 
 Anon her little bosom heaves. 
 
 Her rosy lips begin to curl ; 
 And with a quivering chin she sobs, 
 
 " Papa don't love his 'ittle dirl I " 
 
 King, palace, book, are all forgot ; 
 
 My arms are round my darling thrown, — 
 The thundercloud has burst, and lo ! 
 
 Tears fall and mingle with her own. 
 
 "LULU." 
 
 " Midget, gypsy, big eyed elf, little Kitty Clover, 
 What have you been playing at for this fjour and over ? 
 Where have you been wandering, in the name of wonder ? 
 Were n't you'frightcned at the wind ? Are you fond of thunder ? 
 Were you in a fairies' cave while the rain was falling. 
 With your ears sewn tightly up, not to heir me calling ? 
 
 Who has taught your hair to curl ? 
 
 Where 's your apron, dirty gir! >" 
 
i 
 
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 70 
 
 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 
 m 
 
 i 
 
 
 " Now my brains is all mussed up, got too big a headful ; 
 
 Fifteen questions at a time mixes me up dreadful. 
 
 Course 1 been a visiting, me and Rainy Weather, — 
 
 Sure to find the birds at home when we go together ; 
 
 Guess my ears was full of songs so I did n't hear you, 
 
 Else because you stayed at home I got too far from near you. 
 
 Once some little thing said low, 
 
 'Mamma wants you, Lv. I know.' 
 
 " 'Spect it was that funny bird that kept and kept a singing, 
 While the rain was coming down and thunder-bells was ringing. 
 ' Oh, you goosie-bird,' I said, * rains like sixty-seven, 
 And yuur song '11 get so wet it can't fly up to heaven ; 
 Did you swallow it one day when you was a drinking } 
 Is it all the talk you 've got, or only just your thinking } 
 
 Or do songs come up and sprout. 
 
 And rain makes 'em blossom out ? ' 
 
 " Then the bird came close to me, — mamma, he did, truly, — 
 Said, 'I never told before, but I '11 tell you, Luly : 
 One day God got tired of heaven and the angels' singing. 
 Thought their harps were out of tune, made such awful dinging ; 
 So he sang a piece of song, put some feathers round it. 
 Then he threw it in a tree, where some bird's name found it ; 
 
 And he mixed the song and name 
 
 Till they grew the very same.' 
 
 " Mamma, what you smiling at ? Had n't vou better hold me ? 
 I '11 be tired a saying through what the birdie told me : 
 God sends word down by the rain when he wants to hear him, — 
 That is why the whisper-drops tinkle by so near him. 
 Should you think his song would lose } I can tell you better ! 
 It don't have so far to go as my grandma's letter ; 
 
 Earth and heaven 's so close apart, 
 
 God can catch it in his heart. 
 
 " 'T was the wind that curled my hair, — didn't he fix it funny } 
 Combed and twisted it like this 'thout a spec' of money; 
 Where 's my apron? Let me see ! I must think it over — 
 'Fraid you 've got a naughty girl for your Kitty Clover, 
 'Cause I gave that to the brook with the big stones . . it, 
 Where it has to run across every little minute ; 
 
 Covered 'em all dry and neat, 
 
 So my brook won't wet its feet ! " 
 
 Carrie W. Thompson. 
 
 BABY IN CHURCH. 
 
 Aunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty thing 
 Of hamburg and ribbon and lace, 
 
 And mamma bad said, as she settled it round 
 Our Baby's beautiful face. 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLIC. 
 
 Where the dimples play and the laughter lies 
 Like sunbeams hid in her violet eyes, — 
 " If the day is pleasant, and liaby is good, 
 She may go to church and wear her new hood." 
 
 Then lien, aged six, began to tell, 
 
 In elder-brotherly way, 
 How very, very good she must be 
 
 If she went to church next day. 
 He told of the church, the choir, and the crowd, 
 And the man up in front who talked so loud ; 
 But she must not talk, nor laugh, nor sing, 
 But just sit as quiet as anything. 
 
 And so, on a beautiful Sabbath in May, 
 When the fruit-buds burst into flowers 
 
 (There was n't a blossom on bush or tree 
 So fair as this blossom of ours). 
 
 All in her white dress, dainty and new, 
 
 Our Baby sat in the family pew. 
 
 The grand, sweet music, the reverent air, 
 
 The solemn hush, and the voice of prayer, 
 
 Filled all her baby soul with awe, 
 
 As she sat in her little place, 
 And the holy look that the angels wear 
 
 Seemed pictured upon her face. 
 And the sweet words uttered so long ago 
 Came into my mind with a rhythmic flow, — 
 *' Of such is the kingdom of heaven," said He, 
 And I knew He spake of such as she. 
 
 The sweet-voiced organ pealed forth again, 
 
 The collection-box came around. 
 And Baby dropped her penny in, 
 
 And smiled at the chinking sound. 
 Alone in the choir Aunt Nellie stood, 
 Waiting the close of the soft prelude, 
 To begin her solo. High and strong 
 She struck the first note ; clear and long 
 
 71 
 
 :OMPSON. 
 
 She held it, and all were charmed, but one 
 
 Who, with all the might she had, 
 Sprang to her little feet and cried, 
 
 " Aunt Nellie, vou 's being bad ! " 
 The audience smfled, the minister coughed, 
 The little boys in the corner laughed, 
 The tenor shook like an aspen-leaf, 
 And hid his face in his handkerchief. 
 
72 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And poor Aunt Nellie could never tell 
 How she finished that terrible strain, 
 But says nothing on earth could tempt 
 
 Her to go through the scene again. 
 So we have decided, perhaps 't is best, 
 For her sake, and ours, and all the rest, 
 That we wait, may be a year or two, 
 Ere our Baby re-enter the family pew. 
 
 WHO'LL TEND BABY? 
 
 " Who 'll take care of the baby ? " 
 Says Joe to Sam, in fierce debate 
 
 Upon the woman question ; 
 •' You *ve answered well all other points. 
 
 Now here 's my last suggestion : 
 When, woman goes to cast her vote, — 
 
 Some miles away, it may be, — 
 Who, then, I ask, will stay at home 
 
 To rock and tend the baby ? " 
 
 Quoth Sam : *' I own you *ve made my case 
 
 Appear a little breezy ; 
 I hoped you 'd pass this question by, 
 
 And give me something easy. 
 But since the matter seems to turn 
 
 On this one as its axis, 
 Just get the one who rocked 't when 
 
 She went to pay her taxes i '* 
 
 E. E. 
 
 ! i{ 
 
 I 
 
 HER NAME. 
 
 In search from " A " to " Z " they p-'.ssed. 
 And " Marguerita " chose at last; 
 But thought it sounded far more sweet 
 To call the baby *' Marguerite." 
 When qrandma saw the little pet, 
 She called her " darling Margaret." 
 Next Uncle Jack and Cousin Aggie 
 Sent cup and spoon to " little Maggie." 
 And grandpapa the right must beg 
 To call the lassie " bonnie Meg ; " 
 (From " Marguerita " down to " Meg ") 
 And now she *s simply " little Peg." 
 
 
AMONG THE LITTLE FOLK. 
 
 n 
 
 WHY? 
 
 What did the baby come for ? 
 
 That was the question trite 
 The neighbors asked of each other 
 
 That stormy winter night. 
 What was the need of childrei.' ? 
 
 'T was hard enough before 
 To keep care out of the window, — 
 
 The gray wolf from the door. 
 
 Out of the wintry barren, 
 
 Over the sleeping town, 
 Out of the cold, dark heaven 
 
 Drifted the snow-flakes down. 
 Within the low, old cottage 
 
 Flickered the candle's flame 
 In the dusk of the early dawning, 
 
 But never an answer came. 
 
 What did the baby come for ? 
 
 A woman's heart could tell : 
 At touch of the tiny fingers, 
 
 Like to a fairy spell, 
 A heart that was hard with doubting, 
 
 A soul that was barred with sin. 
 Opened a tide from God's ocean, 
 
 The mother-love swept in. 
 
 E. E. 
 
 What did the baby come for "i 
 
 A strong man's heart had grown. 
 Through poverty's constant grinding. 
 
 As hard as the nether stone. 
 Only a baby's prattle, 
 
 And yet,'0 wonderful song 
 That made a man's heart grow lighter, 
 
 Made a man's hands grow strong I 
 
 Was ever a spring or summer 
 
 That vanished on wings so fleet ? 
 Ah ! 't was a joy to labor. 
 
 When living had grown so sweet I 
 Care never came near the window, 
 
 And poverty, gaunt and grim, 
 Never stepped over the threshold, — 
 
 There was no place for hira. 
 
 Maud Moore. 
 
 % 
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 74 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 "ONLY A BIT OF CHILDHOOD THROWN 
 
 AWAY." 
 
 What did the baby go for ? 
 
 Softly the summer night 
 Fell like a benediction 
 
 On the baby, shrouded white. 
 Only two golden summers I 
 
 'T was not a life, we say, 
 " Only a bit of childhood 
 
 The great God threw away." 
 
 Out on the dusky meadow. 
 
 Over the slumbering town, 
 Out of the silent heaven 
 
 Brightly the stars looked down. 
 What did the baby go for .-' 
 
 Flickered the dawning's flame 
 Into the cottage window. 
 
 But never an answer came. 
 
 What did the baby go for ? 
 
 Oh, thou shadow of death I 
 Oh, thou angel 1 thou demou • 
 
 Icy of touch and breath I 
 We cry to the sunlit heavens,. 
 
 And no voice answereth. 
 
 Will there ever come a morning 
 
 When, with our tears all dried, 
 Resting in fair green pastures 
 
 The river of life beside, 
 We shall know, beyond all doubting. 
 
 Just why the baby died ? 
 
 Oh, thank God for the children i 
 Ay, give thanks, — though we lay 
 
 Under the " sod of the valley " 
 The fairest of all away. 
 
 Thank Him for those that leave us. 
 Thank Him for those that stay. 
 
 Maud Moore. 
 
[^OWN 
 
 PART III. 
 
 ,f or €f^vi0tma0 €tbt. 
 
 JD Moore. 
 
ii 
 
 
 t ."»■ 
 
 III 
 
 i?/«^ on/, ye crystal spheres. 
 Once bless our human ears. 
 
 If ye have power to touch our senses so; 
 And let your silver chime 
 Alove in melodious time, 
 
 And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow; 
 And with your ninefold harmony. 
 Make up full consort to angelic symphony. 
 
 MiLTOX. 
 
PART III. 
 
 for €fyci^tma» €iht. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 MERRY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 In the rush of the merry morninc, 
 When the red irns through the gray, 
 
 And the wintry . orl 'ies waiting 
 For the glory ot tl 'lav ; 
 
 Then we hear ; fttful rasfiing 
 Just without upon the stair, 
 
 See two white phantoms coming, 
 
 • Catch the glea . of sunny hair. 
 
 Arc tbey Ch tmas fairies stealing 
 
 Rows of liule socks to fill. > 
 Are they angels floating hither 
 
 With their message of good-will ? 
 What sweet spell are these elves weaving, 
 
 As like larks they chirp and sing ? 
 Are these palms of peace from heaven 
 
 That these lovely spirits bring ? 
 
 Rosy feet upon the threshold. 
 
 Eager faces peeping through. 
 With the first red ray of sunshine. 
 
 Chanting cherubs come in view; 
 Mistletoe and gleaming holly, 
 
 Symbols of a blessed day, 
 In their chubby hands they carry. 
 
 Streaming all along the way. 
 
 Well we know them, never weary 
 
 Of this innocent surprise ; 
 Waiting, watching, listening always 
 
 With full hearts and tender eyes. 
 While our little household angels. 
 
 White and golden in the sun, 
 Greet us with the sweet old welcome, — 
 
 " Merry Christmas, every one I " 
 
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 'jS THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 FAIRY FACES. 
 
 Out of the mists of childhood, 
 
 Steeped in a golden glory, 
 Come dreamy forms and faces, 
 
 Snatches of song and story ; 
 Whispers of sweet, still faces ; 
 
 Rays of ethereal glimmer, 
 That gleam like sunny heavens, 
 
 Ne'er to grow colder or dimmer : 
 Now far in the distance, now shining near, 
 Lighting the snows of the shivering year. 
 
 Faces there are that tremble, 
 
 Bleared with a silent weeping, 
 Weird in a shadowy sorrow. 
 
 As if endless vigil keeping. 
 Faces of dazzling brightness, 
 
 With childlike radiance lighted, 
 Flashing with many a beauty. 
 
 Nor care nor time had blighted. 
 But o'er them all there 's a glamour thrown, 
 Bright with the dreamy distance alone. 
 
 Aglow in the Christmas halo. 
 
 Shining with heavenly lustre. 
 These are the fairy faces 
 
 That round the hearthstone cluster. 
 These the deep, tender records, 
 
 Sacred in all their meetness, 
 That, wakening purest fancies, 
 
 Soften us with their sweetness ; 
 As. gathered where flickering f.agots burn. 
 We welcome the holy season's return. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS SONG. 
 
 The oak is a strong and stalwart tree, 
 
 And it lifts its branches up. 
 And catches the dew right gallantly 
 
 In many a dainty cup ; 
 And the world is brighter and better made 
 
 Because of the woodman's stroke. 
 Descending in sun, or falling in shade. 
 
 On the sturdy form of the oak. 
 But stronger, I ween, in apparel green. 
 
 And trappings so fair to see. 
 With its precious freight for small and great, 
 
 Is the beautiful Christmas Tree. 
 
FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 79 
 
 The elm is a kind and goodly tree, 
 
 With its brandies bending low ; 
 The heart is glad when its form we see, 
 
 And we list to the river's flow. 
 Ay, the heart is glad and the pulses bound, 
 
 And joy illumines the face, 
 Whenever a goodly elm is found, 
 
 Because of its beauty and grace. 
 But kinder, I ween, more goodly in mien. 
 
 With branches more drooping and free, 
 The tint of whose leaves fidelity weaves, 
 
 Is the beautiful Christmas Tree. 
 
 The maple is supple and lithe and strong, 
 
 And claimcth our love anew, 
 When the days are listless and quiet and long, 
 
 And the world is fair to view ; 
 And later, — as beauties and graces unfold, — 
 
 A monarch right regally drcst, 
 With streamers aflame, and pennons of gold, 
 
 It scemcth of all the best. 
 More lissome, I ween, the brightness and sheen. 
 
 And the coloring sunny and free, 
 And the banners soft, that are held aloft 
 
 By the beautiful Christmas Tree. 
 St. Nicholas. Mrs. IIattie S. Russeli- 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAMP ON THE SAN GABR'EL. 
 
 Lamar and his Rangers camped at dawn on the banks of the 
 
 San Gabr'cl, 
 Under the mossy live-oaks, in the heart of a lonely dell ; 
 With the cloudless Texas sky above, and the musquite grass 
 
 below, 
 And all the prairie lying still, in a misty, silvery glow. 
 
 The sound of the horses cropping grass, the fall of a nut, full 
 
 ripe. 
 The stir of a weary soldier, or the tap of a smoked-out pipe, 
 Fell only as sounds in a dream may fall upcm a drowsy ear, 
 Till the Captain said, " 'T is Christmas Day! so, boys, we '11 
 
 spend it here ; 
 
 " For the sake of our homes and our childhood, we Ml give the 
 day its dues." 
 
 Then some leaped up to prepare the feast, and some sat still 
 to muse. 
 
 And some pulled scarlet yupon-berries and wax-white mistle- 
 toe, 
 
 To garland the stand-up rifles, — for Christmas has no foe. 
 
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 80 
 
 TffE HU.AfBLER POETS. 
 
 
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 1 / 
 
 And every heart had a pleasant thought, or a tender memory, 
 Of unforgotten Christmas Tides that nevermore might be ; 
 They felt the thrill of a mother's kiss, they heard the happy 
 
 psalm, 
 And ♦^he men grew still, and all the camp was full of a gracious 
 
 calm. 
 
 " Halt I " cried the sentinel ; and lo I from out of the brush- 
 wood near 
 There came, with weary, fainting step, a man in mortal fear, — 
 A brutal man, with a tiger's heart, and yet he made this plea : 
 " I am dying of hunger and thirst, so do what you will with me." 
 
 They knew him well : who did not know the cruel San Sabatan, — 
 
 The robber of the Rio Grande, who spared not any man ? 
 
 In low, fierce tones they spoke his name, and looked at a coil 
 
 of rope ; 
 And the man crouched down in abject fear — how could he dare 
 
 to hope ? 
 
 The Captain had just been thinking of the book his mother read, 
 Of a Saviour born on Christmas Day, who bowed on the cross 
 
 his head ; 
 Blending the thought of his mother's tears with the holy 
 
 mother's grief, — 
 And when he saw San Sabatan, he thought of the dying thief. 
 
 He spoke to the men in whispers, and they heeded the words 
 
 he said. 
 And brought to the perishing robber, water and nicat and 
 
 bread. 
 He ate and drank like a famished wolf, and then lay down to rest. 
 And the camp, perchance, had a stiller feast for its strange 
 
 Christmas guest. 
 
 But, or ever the morning dawned again, the Captain touched 
 
 his hand: 
 " Here is a horse, and some meat and bread ; fly to the Rio 
 
 Grande ! 
 Fly for your life! We follow hard; touch nothing on your 
 
 way — 
 Your life was only spared because *t was Jesus Christ's birth- 
 
 day." ^ 
 
 He watched him ride as the falcon flies, then turned to the 
 
 breaking day ; 
 The men awoke, the Christmas berries were quietly cast away ; 
 And, full of thought, they saddled again, and rode off into the 
 
 west — 
 May God be merciful to them, as they were merciful to their 
 
 guest I 
 
 Amelia Barr. 
 
FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 8z 
 
 CHRISTMAS TREASURES. 
 
 I COUNT my treasures o'er with care : 
 
 The little toy that baby knew, 
 
 A little sock of faded liue, 
 A little lock of golden hair. 
 
 Long years ago this Christmas time 
 My little one, my all to me, 
 Sat robed in white upon my knee, 
 
 And heard the merry Christmas chime. 
 
 "Tell me, my little golden-head, 
 
 If Santa Glaus should come to-night, 
 What shall he bring my baby bright, 
 
 What treasure for my boy ? " I said. 
 
 And then he named the little toy, 
 
 While in his honest, mourniul eyes 
 There came a look of sweet surprise, 
 
 That spoke his quiet, trustful joy. 
 
 And as he lisped his evening prayer, 
 
 He asked the boon with childish grace. 
 Then, toddling to the chimney-place, 
 
 He hung bis little stocking there. 
 
 That night, as lengthening shadows crept, 
 I saw the white-winged angels come 
 With heavenly music to our home. 
 
 And kiss my darling as he slept. 
 
 They must have heard his baby prayer, 
 For in the morn, with smiling face. 
 He toddled to the chimney-place, 
 
 And found the little treasure tnere. 
 
 They came again one Christmas Tide, 
 That angel host so fair and white, 
 And, singing all the Christmas night, 
 
 They lured my darling from my side. 
 
 A little sock, a little toy, 
 
 A little lock of golden hair, 
 
 The Christmas music on the air, 
 A watching for my baby boy. 
 
 But if again that angel train 
 
 And golden head come back to me 
 To bear me to eternity. 
 My watching will not be in vain. 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 6 
 
82 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 CHRISTMAS OUTCASTS. 
 
 Christ died for all ; and on the hearts of all 
 Who gladly decorate their cheerful homes 
 At Christmas Tide, this blessed truth should fall, 
 That they may mix some honey with the gall 
 Of those to whom a Christmas never comes. 
 
 The poor are everywhere in Nature's caurse. 
 
 Yet they may still control some sweetened crumbs, 
 
 No matter what they lack in hearts or purse ; 
 
 Hut there are those whose better fate is worse, 
 To whom no day of Christmas ever comes. 
 
 i; 
 
 I 
 
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 V, 
 
 
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 I' 
 
 The man who wildly throws away his chance. 
 
 An outcast from all cheerful hearts and homes, 
 Who may not mingle where the happy dance. 
 Nor gain from loving eyes one kindly glance, 
 Is he to whom no Christmas ever comes. 
 
 The man condemned in hidden ways to grope, 
 At sight of whom each kindly voice is dumb, 
 Or he whose life is shortened in its scope, 
 Who waits for nothing but the hangman's rope, 
 Is he to whom a Christmas cannot come. 
 
 Christ died for all ; he came to find the lost, 
 Whether they bide in palaces or slum'-, — 
 
 No matter how their linos of life are crossed. 
 
 And they who love him best will serve him most 
 l>y helping those to whom no Christmas comes. 
 
 A'av York Sun. 
 
 CHRISTMAS BELLS. 
 
 There are sounds in the sky when the year grows old, 
 
 And the winds of the winter blow — 
 When night and the moon arc clear and cold, 
 
 And the stars shine on the snow, 
 Or wild is the blast and the bitter sleet 
 
 That beats on the window-pane ; 
 But blest on the frosty hills arc the feet 
 
 Of the Christmas time again ! 
 
 Chiming sweet when the night wind swells, 
 Blest is the sound of the Christmas Bells I 
 
FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 83 
 
 Dear are the sounds of the Christmas chimes 
 
 In the land of the ivied towers, 
 And they welcome the dearest of festival times 
 
 In this Western world of ours ! 
 Uright on the holly and mistletoe bough 
 
 The English firelight falls, 
 And bright arc the wreathed evergreens now 
 
 That gladden our own home walls ! 
 
 And hark ! the first sweet note that tells, 
 The welcome of the Christmas Bells I 
 
 The owl that sits in the ivy's shade, 
 
 Remote from the ruined tower, 
 Shall start from his drowsy watch afraid 
 
 When the clock shall strike the hour; 
 And over the fields in their frosty rhyme 
 
 The cheery sounds shall go, 
 And chime shall answer unto chime 
 
 Across the moonlit snow ! 
 
 Mow sweet the lingering music dwells, — 
 The music of the Christmas Dells. 
 
 It fell not thus in (he East afar 
 
 Where the iJabe in the manger lay: 
 The wise men followed their guiding star 
 
 To the dawn of a milder day ; 
 And the fig and the sycamore gathered green, 
 
 And the palm-tree of Deborah rose; 
 'T was ihe strange first Christmas the world had seen 
 
 And it came not in storm and snows. 
 
 Not yet on Nazareth's hills and dells 
 Il.ul floated the sound of Christmas iJells, 
 
 The cedars of Lebanon shook in the blast 
 
 Of their own cold mountain air ; 
 liut nought o'er the wintry plain had passed 
 
 To tell that the Lord was there! 
 The oak and the olive and almond were still, 
 
 In the night now worn and thin ; 
 No wind of the wintertime roared from the hill 
 
 To waken the guests at the inn ; 
 
 No dream to them the nuisic tells 
 
 That is to come from the Christmas Iklls I 
 
 The years that have fled like the leaves on the gale 
 
 Sinre the morn of the Miracle-nirtli, 
 Have wiilencd the fanie of the marvellous tale 
 
 'I'ill the tidings have filled the earth I 
 And so in the climes of the icy North, 
 
 And the lands of the cane and the palm, 
 Uy the Alpine cotter's blazing hearth, 
 
 And in tropic belts of calm, 
 
 Men list to night the welcome swells, 
 Sweet and clear, of Christmas liells I 
 
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 84 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 They are ringing to-night through the Norway firs, 
 
 And across the Swedish fells, 
 And the Cuban palm-tree dreamily stirs 
 
 To the sound of those Christmas IJclls 1 
 They ring where the Indian Ganges rolls 
 
 Its flood through the rice-ficlds wiclc ; 
 They swell the far hymns of the Lapps and Poles 
 
 To the praise of the Crucified. 
 
 Sweeter than tones of the ocean's shells 
 Mingle the chimes of the Christmas liells I 
 
 The years come not back that have circled away 
 
 With the past of the lOastern land, 
 When He plucked the corn on the Sabbath day 
 
 And healed the withered hand ; 
 But the bells shall join in a joyous chime 
 
 For the One who walked the sea. 
 And ring again for the better time 
 
 Of the Christ that is to be I 
 
 Then ring ! — for earth's best promise dwells 
 In ye, O joyous Prophet Bells I 
 
 Ring out at the meeting of night and morn 
 
 For the dawn of a happier day ! 
 Lo, the stone from our faith's great sepulchre torn 
 
 The angels have rolled away ! 
 And they come to us here in our low abode, 
 
 With words like the sunrise gleam, — 
 Come down and ascend by that heavenly road 
 
 That Jacob saw in his dream. 
 
 Spirit of love, that in music dwells, 
 
 Open our hearts with the Christmas Bells I 
 
 Help us to see that the glad heart pray 
 
 As well as the bended knees; 
 That ihcrr are in our own as in ancient days 
 
 The Scri.jes and the Pharisees; 
 That the Mount of Transfiguration still 
 
 Looks down on these Christian lands, 
 And the glorified ones from that holy hill 
 
 Are reaching their helping hands. 
 
 Those be the words our music tells 
 Of solemn joy, O Christmas Bells I 
 
 CHRISTMAS SHADOWS. 
 
 The needles have dropped from her nerveless hands, 
 As she watches the dying embers gldw ; 
 
 For out from the broad old chimney-place 
 Come ghostly shadows of " long ago," — 
 
 ) 
 
FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE. 
 
 Shadows that carry her back apjain 
 
 To the time of her childhood's artless joy; 
 
 Shadows that show her a tiny row 
 
 Of stockings awaiting the Christmas toy; 
 
 Shadows that show her the faces loved 
 
 Of many a half-forgotten friend, 
 And the Christnias Eve, it is passing by, 
 
 While Past and Present in shadows blend. 
 Ahjne in the dear old homestead now. 
 
 With only the shadows of *' Auld Lang Syne," 
 The clock is ticking the moments on, 
 
 While the tears in her aged eyes still shine. 
 
 If only out from the silent world, 
 
 The world of shadows which mocks her so, 
 One might return to his vacant chair, 
 
 To sit with her in the firelight's glow! 
 I£ only — Was that a white, white hand 
 
 That seemed to beckon her out of the gloom ? 
 Or was it the embers' last bright flash 
 
 That startled the shadows round the room ? 
 
 The Christmas Eve, it has passed at length ; 
 
 A glorious day from the night is born ; 
 Th- shadows are gone from earth away, 
 
 And the bells are ringing for Christmas morn. 
 But, ah ! by the broad old chimney-place 
 
 The angel of death keeps watch alone, 
 For straight to the Christ-child's beckoning arms 
 
 A longing spirit hath gladly fown. 
 
 85 
 
 UPON THE THRESHOLD. 
 
 Once more we stand with half-reluctant feet 
 
 Ui)on the threshold of another year; 
 That line where Past and Present seem to meet 
 
 In stronger contrast than they do elsewhere. 
 
 Look back a moment. Docs the prospect please, 
 Or docs the weary heart but sigh regret } 
 
 Can Recollection smile, or, ill at e.jse 
 With what is past, wish only to forget ? 
 
 Say, canst thou smile when Memory's lingcrin j gaze 
 (^nce more recalls the dying year to sight ? 
 
 Wouldst thou live o'er again those changing days, 
 Or bid them fade forever into night? 
 
'u- n 
 
 86 
 
 T//E J!W:.IBLE^ PCETS. 
 
 A solemn question, a^ ' tl.c 'u'* "i 'g h'^art 
 
 Scarce dare say " Ve^, yet vviil i>ui quite say " No;' 
 
 For joy and sadne.v both Jijiv? pbycc' their part 
 In making up tlie lale < * '* Urn;; ago.' 
 
 Here Memory sees the golden sunlight gleam 
 Across the path of life and shine awhile ; 
 
 And now the picture changes like a dream, 
 And sorrow dims the eyes and kills the smile. 
 
 So — it has gone — where all has gone before ; 
 
 The moaning wiiul has sung the c "ad year's dirge, 
 Time's waves roll on against the cru nbling shore, 
 
 And sinks the worn-out bark beneath the surge. 
 
 Here ends the checkered page of prose and verse, 
 Of shapely words and lines writ all awry. 
 
 There they must stand for better or for worse ; 
 So shut the book and bid the year good-by 1 
 Chambers^ s Journal, G. E. 
 
 % 
 
 A NEW YEAR. 
 
 Over the threshold a gallatil new-comer 
 
 Steppeth with tread that is royal to see ; 
 White as the winter-time, rosy as summer, 
 
 Hope in his eyes, and his laugh ringcth free, 
 '.o! in his hands there me gifts overflowing. 
 
 Promises, pnjphecies, toao in his train; 
 O'er him ihe d:iwu in its luau'vV is glowing, 
 
 Flee froin his presence the pKadows of pain. 
 
 How shall wc welcome him? Shall we remember 
 
 ".le who as royally came to our door 
 i'w Ive months ago when the winds of December 
 
 icioaned in the tree-tops and raved on the shore ? 
 He, too, had Lirsress of I)ounty to offer; 
 
 He was as smiling, as gracious of mien ; 
 Only the beautiful sought he to proffer, 
 
 Only such looks as were calm and serene. 
 
 Now he has fled ; and our hopes that have perished. 
 
 Lovely ideals which never were found, 
 Dreams that we followed and plans that we cherished, 
 
 Ivic, like the autumn leaves, dead on the ground. 
 So wilt thou cheat us with sign and with token, — 
 
 So wilt thou woo us to follow thee on. 
 Till thy last sigh, through a lute that is broken, 
 
 Till thy last vision is faded and gone. 
 
 I \ 
 
FOR CHRISTMAS TIDE. f] 
 
 Nay! we arc tharlilcsit ir''eed if we 'uorrow 
 
 Only the weary Ubretio o^ piin : 
 Fir)d in the retrospect nothi.ig but sorrow, 
 
 Count up o'l." year in the tones that complain. 
 Surely we 're stronger through faith and endeavor j 
 
 Surely are richer in courage and love ; 
 Surely are nearer the Infinite ever, — 
 
 Nearer the dear ones who wait us above. 
 
 Welcome, then. New Year, with stainless white pagc^ 
 
 Though we may blot them ere long with our tears; 
 So it has been through the long passing ages. 
 
 Worn with the footprints of close crowding years. 
 Welcome, sweet year ! may the full-handed hours 
 
 Find us like servants who wait for their Lord ; 
 Using with earnest devotion our powers. 
 
 Looking for him, and obeying his word. 
 
 TURNING OVER THE NEW LEAF. 
 
 The year begins. I turn the leaf, 
 
 All over writ with good resolves ; 
 Each to fulfil will be in chief 
 
 My aim while earth its round revolves. 
 How many a leaf I 'vc turned before, 
 
 And tried to make the record true ; 
 Eacli year a vreck on Time's dull shore 
 
 Proved much I dared, but little knew. 
 
 Ah, bright resolve I I low high you \ifxx 
 
 The future's hopeful standard on ; 
 How brave you start ; '.ow poor yo'i \s r.r 
 
 How soon arc hope and courage gone ! 
 You point to deeds of sacrilicc, 
 
 You shun the path of careless ease; 
 Lentils and wooden hoes? Is this 
 
 The fare a human soul to please ? 
 
 What wonder, then, if men do fall 
 
 Where good is ever all austere ; 
 While vice is fair and pleasant all, 
 
 And turns the leaf to lead ihc year ? 
 Yet still once more I turn the leaf, 
 
 And mean to v/alk the better way ; 
 I struggle with old u:ibc'icf, 
 
 And strive to reach the perfect day. 
 
I' 
 
 
 > M 
 
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 88 TW^ HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Why should the road that leads to heaven 
 
 Be all one reach oi sterile sand ? 
 Why not, just here and there, be given 
 
 A rose to deck the dreary land? 
 But why repine ? Others have trod, 
 
 With sorer feet and heavier sins, 
 Their painful pathway toward their God — 
 
 My pilgrimage anew begins. 
 
 Failure and failure, hitherto. 
 
 Has time inscribed upon my leaves ; 
 I 've wandered many a harvest through 
 
 And never yet have gathered sheaves ; 
 Yet once again the leaf I turn, 
 
 Hope against hope for one success ; 
 One merit-mark at least to earn, 
 
 One sunbeam in the wilderness. 
 
 iV. 
 
5n 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Bnhtt tfte <^pm Mp. 
 

 Here haply too, at vernal dawn. 
 
 Some musing bard may stray, 
 And eye the smoiing dewy lawn, 
 
 And misty tnoiiniain gray ; 
 Or by the reaper'' s nightly beam. 
 
 Mild-checkering through the trees, 
 Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 
 
 Hoarse swelling on the breeze. 
 
 Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 
 
 My lowly banks o'crsprcad, 
 And view, deep bending in the pool, 
 
 Their shadows^ watery bed! 
 Let fragrant birks in woodbine drest 
 
 My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
 And, for the little songster's nest, 
 
 The close-embowering thorn. 
 
 Burns. 
 
PART IV. 
 
 Bv^tt tfyt ODpen M>U^, 
 
 ROBIN'S COME. 
 
 From the elm-tree's topmost bough, 
 Hark I the robin's early song I 
 
 Telling one and all that now 
 Merry springtime hastes along ; 
 
 Welcome tidings dost thou bring, 
 
 Little harbinger of spring : 
 
 Robin 's come. 
 
 Of the winter we are weary, 
 Weary of the frost and snow ; 
 
 Longing for the sunshine cheery. 
 And the brooklet's gurgling flow; 
 
 Gladly then we hear thee sing 
 
 The joyful reveille of spring : 
 
 Robin 's come. 
 
 Ring it out o'er hill and plain, 
 
 Through the garden's lonely bowers, 
 
 Till the green leaves dance again, 
 Till the air is sweet with flowers I 
 
 Wake the cowslips bv the rill. 
 
 Wake the yellow daffodil : 
 
 Robin 's come. 
 
 Then, as thou wert wont of yore, 
 liuild thy nest and rear thy young 
 
 Close beside our cottage door. 
 In the woodbine leaves among ; 
 
 Hurt or harm thou nccd'st not fear, 
 
 Nothing rude shall venture near : 
 Robin 's come. 
 
92 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Singing still in yonder lane, 
 
 Robin answers merrily; 
 Ravished by the sweet refrain, 
 
 Alice clasps her hands in glee, 
 Calling from the open door. 
 With her soft voice o'er and o'er, 
 Robin 's come. 
 
 NESTLINGS. 
 
 S^ 
 
 I 
 
 O LITTLE bird I sing sweet among the leaves. 
 
 Safe hid from sight, beside thy downy nest ; 
 
 The rain fails, murmuring to the drooi)ing eaves 
 
 A low refrain, that suits thy music best. 
 
 Sing sweet, O bird I thy recompense draws nigh,- 
 
 Four callow nestlings 'neath the mother's wing. 
 
 So many flashing wings that by and bv 
 
 Will cleave the sunny air. On, sing, bird, sing I 
 
 ■] !• 
 
 
 I ! 
 
 (Sing, O my heart I Thy callow nestlings sleep. 
 Safe hidden 'neath a gracious folding wing, 
 Until the time when from their slumbers deep 
 They wake, and soar in beauty. Sing, heart, sing !) 
 
 O little bird, sing sweet ! Though rain may fall, 
 And though thy callow brood thy care require, 
 Behind the rain-cloud, with its trailing pall, 
 Shineth, undimmed, the gracious, golden fire. 
 Sing on, O bird ! nor of the cloud take heed ; 
 For thou art heritor of glorious spring ; 
 And every field is sacred to thy need — 
 The wealth, the beauty thine. Oh, sing, bird, sing ! 
 
 (Sing, O my heart I sing on, though rain may pour ; 
 
 Sing on, for unawares the winds will brinp 
 
 A drift of sunshine to thy cottage door, 
 
 And arch the clouds with rainbows. Sing, heart, sing !) 
 
 O bird ! sing sweet. What though the time be near 
 When thou shalt sit upon the swaying bough, 
 With no sweet mate, no nestling by, to hear 
 The bubbling song thou sing'st to glad them now I 
 Thy task was done, fulfilled in sweet spring days — 
 In golden summer, when thy brood take wing, 
 Shalt thou not still have left a hymn of praise 
 Because thy work is over? Sing, bird, sing I 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 (Sing, O my heart I What if thy birds have flown ? 
 
 Thou hadst the joy of their awakening, 
 
 A thousand memories left thee for thine own ; 
 
 Sing thou for task accomplished. Sing, heart, sing!) 
 
 F. C. 
 
 93 
 
 THE CHIMNEY NEST. 
 
 A DAINTY, delicate swallow-feather 
 
 Is all that we now in the chimney trace 
 
 Of something that days and days together 
 With twittering bird-notes filled the place. 
 
 Where are \ou flying now, swallow, swallow? 
 
 Where are you waking the spaces blue ? 
 How many little ones follow, follow, 
 
 Whose wings to strength in the chimney grew ? 
 
 Deep and narrow, and dark and lonely. 
 
 The sooty place that you nested in ; 
 Over you one blue glimmer onlv, — 
 
 Say, were there many to make the din } 
 
 This is certain, that somewhere or other 
 
 Up in the chimney is loosely hung 
 A r|ueer-sl)apcd nest, where a patient mother 
 
 Brooded a brood of tender young. 
 
 That here, as in many deserted places, 
 Urimming with life for hours and hours, 
 
 We miss with the hum a thousand graces. 
 Valued the more since no more ours. 
 
 Ah! why do we shut our eyes half blindly. 
 And clohc our hearts to some wee things near, 
 
 Till he who granted them kindly, kindly 
 Gathers them back, that we see and hear, 
 
 And know, by loss of the same grown dearer, 
 Nought is so small of his works and ways, 
 
 But, holding it tenderly when 't was nearer, 
 Has added a joy to our vanished days } 
 
 So, little, delicate swallow-feather, 
 
 Fashioned with care by the Master's hand, 
 
 I Ml hold you close for your message, whether 
 Or not the whole I may understand. 
 
 Mary B. Dodgk. 
 
 
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94 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 THE CAPTIVE HUMMING-BIRD. 
 
 Fleet-flying gem, of burnished crest 
 
 And silver-tipped wing, 
 With azure, gold, and sapphire breast ; 
 
 iEolian captive thing ! 
 
 Tell me the secret of thy song, 
 And whence thy robe of beams, 
 
 If to the earth thou dost belong, 
 Or Paradise of dreams. 
 
 ! '■■ 
 
 Born for one season of a ray, 
 To banquet 'mid the bowers. 
 
 Or wilt th./u chant another May, 
 Sweet minstrel of the flowers ? 
 
 The coyest honeysuckles still 
 Their daintiest buds unfold, 
 
 For thee to kiss, with honeyed bill, 
 Their nectar lips of gold. 
 
 i;j: 
 
 The lily opes its snowy cells. 
 The pink, its crimson door. 
 
 " Sip I " whispers every fond bluebell, 
 " My honey to the core." 
 
 While blushing flowers f jr thee all fling 
 
 Their fragrance on the air, 
 The purple morning-glories cling 
 
 On high in beauty bare. 
 
 The tiny chalice of the thyme, 
 
 And daisies, plead below. 
 Each dewy-eyed, too small to climb, 
 
 " Come, kiss me ere you go." 
 
 Away on thy melodious wing 
 To Love's mysterious bowers. 
 
 Still thy free band of minstrels bring 
 To revel 'mid the flowers. 
 
 Breathe on their bosoms fair and sweet, 
 
 And rosy lips apart. 
 And give an'! 'ike, in Love's retreat, 
 
 The honey f a the heart. 
 
 Joel T. Hart. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY, 
 
 95 
 
 THE YELLOW-HAMMER'S NEST. 
 
 The yellow-hammer came to build his nest 
 High in the elm-tree's ever-nodding crest ; 
 All the day long, upon his task intent, 
 Backward and forward busily he went ; 
 
 Gathering from far and near the tiny shreds 
 That birdies weave for little birdies beds, — 
 Now bits of grass, now bits of vagrant string, 
 And now some queerer, dearer sort of thing. 
 
 Far on the lawn, where he was wont to come 
 In search of stuff to build his pretty home, 
 We dropped one day a lock of golden hair, 
 Which our wee darling easily could spare. 
 
 And close beside it tenderly we placed 
 A lock that had the stooping shoulders graced 
 Of her old grandsire ; it was white as snow, 
 Or cherry-trees when they are all ablow. 
 
 Then throve the yellow-hammer's work apace ; 
 Hundreds of times he sought the lucky place 
 Where, sure, he thought, in his bird fashion dim, 
 Wondrous provision had been msec for him. 
 
 Both locks, the white and golden, disappeared ; 
 The nest was finished and the brood was reared ; 
 And then there came a pleasant summer day 
 When the last yellow-hammer flew away. 
 
 Ere long, in triumph, from its leafy height 
 We bore the nest so wonderfully dight. 
 And saw how prettily the white and gold 
 Made warp and woof of many a gleaming fold. 
 
 But wiicn again the yellow-hammers came, 
 Cleaving the orchard with their pallid flame, 
 Grandsire's white locks and baby's golden head 
 Were lying low, both in one mossy oed. 
 
 And so more dear than ever is the nest 
 Taken from the elm-tree's ever-nodding crest. 
 Little the yellow-hammer thought how rare 
 A thing he wrought of white and golden hair. 
 
95 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 THE BIRD ON THE TELEGRAPH WIRE. 
 
 The long lines stretched from west to east, 
 The bird was a dot 'gainst the wide blue sky, 
 
 And I, full of summer gladness and joy, 
 Wrote of the bird as he swung on high. 
 
 So free from all care and sorrow and toil ! 
 
 So fearless 'mid music of countless spheres ! 
 So true to its instincts, though under its feet 
 
 Passed " the news of the world " and the labor of years ! 
 
 He trilled a song to his patient mate ; 
 
 Not a note was made less loud and sweet 
 By a thought of the wounded and dying men, _ 
 
 Though the news of the battle passed under his feet. 
 
 He sang of his birdies — one, two, three. 
 Of his nest in the apple-tree over the way. 
 
 While the wires were bearing the death of a prince, — 
 How a kingdom's throne was empty that day. 
 
 A lovely sight, with his breast of gold. 
 
 His glossy wings and beaded eyes ; 
 One of life's beautiful things, I thought, 
 
 O'erlying its deeper mysteries. 
 
 Little cared he for battles or thrones. 
 
 While the air was so soft and the sun so bright ; 
 
 His nestful and mate were enough for him, 
 And he taught me a lesson, — to trust in God's might. 
 
 On the earth which sages and martyrs have trod 
 
 He teaches us how to build our nest ; 
 Through trials, temptations, and mysteries strange. 
 
 He teaches us, trusting, to say, " It is best." 
 
 PANSIES. 
 
 I SEND thee pansies while the year is young, 
 
 Yellow as sunshine, purple as the night; 
 Flowers of remembrance, ever fondly sung 
 
 By all the chiefest of the Sons of Light ; 
 Ancl if in recollection lives regret 
 
 For wasted days and dreams that were not true, 
 I tell thee that the " pansy freaked with jet " 
 
 Is still the heart's-ease that the poets knew. 
 Take all the sweetness of a gift unsought. 
 And for the pansies send me back a thought. 
 
 Sarah Doudney Clarke. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 97 
 
 THE WATER-LILY. 
 
 •' O STAR on the breast of the river 1 
 
 marvel of bloom and grace I 
 Did you fall right down from heaven, 
 
 Out of the sweetest place ? 
 You are white as the thoughts of an angel, 
 
 Your heart is steeped in the sun : 
 Did you grow in the Golden City, 
 
 My pure and radiant one ? " 
 
 *' Nay, nay, I fell not out of heaven ; 
 
 None gave me my saintly white : 
 It slowly grew from the darkness, 
 
 Down in the dreary night. 
 From the ooze of the silent river 
 
 1 won my glory and grace. 
 White souls fall not, O my poet, 
 
 They rise — to the sweetest place." 
 
 THE ROSE-BUSH. 
 
 There was a rose-bush in a garden growing. 
 
 Its tender leaves unfolding day by day ; 
 The sun looked on, and his down-going 
 
 Left it amid the starlit dusk of nights of May. 
 
 The dew-drop came and kissed it in the gloaming; 
 
 It gathered sweetness in the morning hours ; 
 The bee beheld it as he went a roaming, 
 
 And thought, " What honey will be hidden in its flowers I " 
 
 The light grew richer and the days grew long ; 
 
 The May-time deepened into June ; 
 The air was laden with the robin's song, 
 
 The light wind touched the leaves and set them all atune. 
 
 And now a tiny bud appeared, and then another — 
 
 Bright promises of radiant flowers ; 
 The breezes, whispering, told it to each other, 
 
 The rose-bush heard them in the gladsome hours. 
 
 New hope awoke and thrilled in all its veins ; 
 
 Life is so sweet that culminates in'flowers! 
 It smiled and grew in misty summer rains. 
 
 And caught the freshness ot the evening showers. 
 
 7 
 
98 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And oft the gardener came and stood beside ; 
 
 He tended it alvvay with zealous care, 
 Watching lest any evil should betide, 
 
 Or blight creep o'er the leaves that grew so fair. 
 
 He crushed the buds and dropped them on the ground ; 
 
 The rose-bush felt a chill in every vein ; 
 It drooped, as if to hide each bitter wound — 
 
 This strange experience was its earliest thought of pain. 
 
 " Poor little plant," the gardener thought, 
 
 " Thou art too young, too young to know 
 That few buds unto flowers are brought, — 
 
 It is by pruning thou must grow." 
 
 And still the summer smiled and shone. 
 
 And other roses bloomed and died. 
 " Mine would more beauteously have blown," 
 
 The little rose-bush sadly sighed. 
 
 Again the gardener sought his flowers. 
 
 Where he had watched his treasures blow : 
 
 The autumn blast had swept the bowers. 
 The winds and storms had laid them low I 
 
 Though sad of heart, the rose-bush still was green ; 
 
 It lifted up its drooping head ; 
 " The life that would have filled the buds may still be seen, 
 
 'T is folded in its heart," he said. 
 
 He stooped and took it from the ground 
 
 All trembling with its vague alarms. 
 And quick and tenderly he wrapped it round, 
 
 And kindly bore it in his arms. 
 
 And now, where soft the sunshine flows. 
 
 Within a fair, immortal bovver. 
 In r!l its fragrant beauty blooms the rose, 
 
 Its every bud grown into perfect flower. 
 
 *: 
 
 THE PHANTOM OF THE ROSE. 
 
 Sweet lady, let your lids unclose. — 
 
 Those lids by maiden dreams caressed ; 
 I am the phantom of the rose 
 
 You wore last night upon your breast. 
 Like pearls upon my petals lay 
 
 The weeping fountain's silver tears, 
 Ere in the glittering array 
 
 You bore me proudly 'mid your peers. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 99 
 
 O lady, 't was for you I died — 
 
 Yet have I come and will I stay ; 
 M^ rosy phantom by your side 
 
 'Will linger till the oreak of day. 
 Yet fear not, lady ; nought claim I — 
 
 Nor mass, nor hymn, nor funeral prayer ; 
 My soul is but a perfumed sigh, 
 
 Which pure from Paradise I bear. 
 
 My death is as my life was — sweet ; 
 
 Who would not die as I have done? 
 A fate like mine who would not meet, 
 
 Your bosom fair to lie upon ? 
 A poet on my sentient tomb 
 
 Engraved this legend with a kiss : 
 " Here lies a rose of fairest bloom ; 
 
 E'en kings are jealous of its bliss." 
 
 Jerome A. Hart. 
 {From ThiophiU Gautier.) 
 
 Note. — A scholar who criticises the second half of Mr. Hart's second 
 verse as diverging unnecessarily from the spirit of Gautier, suggests this 
 mucii less poetical quatrain in its place : — 
 
 Yet fear not, neither mass noi prayer 
 
 Nor holy funeral hymn I claim, — 
 My soul is but a perfume rare. 
 
 And pure from Paradise it came. 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF THE ROSE. 
 
 Only a rose in a glass. 
 
 Set by a sick man's bed ; 
 The day was weary, the day was long, 
 But the rose it spoke with a voice-like song, 
 
 And this is what it said : — 
 
 " I know that the wind is keen. 
 
 And the drifted snows lie deep ; 
 I know that the cruel ice lies spread 
 O'er the laughing brook and the lake's blue bed, 
 
 And the fountain's rush and leap. 
 
 " I know, I know all this ; 
 
 Yet here I sit — a rose ! 
 Smiling I sit and I feel no fear. 
 For God is ^ood and the spring is near, 
 
 Couched m the shrouding snows. 
 
100 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 " Canst thou not smile with me ? 
 
 Art thou less strong than I. ? 
 Less strong at heart than a feeble flower 
 Which lives and blos::oms but one brief hour, 
 
 And then must droop and die ? 
 
 " Surely, thou canst endure 
 
 Thy little pains and fears, 
 Kefore whose eyes, all fair and bright, 
 In endless vistas of delight, 
 
 Stretch the eternal years ! " 
 
 Then o'er the sick man's heart 
 
 Fell a deep and hushed repose ; 
 He turned on his pillow and whispered low, 
 That only the listening flower might know : 
 
 " I thank thee, Rose, dear Rose." 
 
 BEAN-BLOSSOMS. 
 
 Where grass grows short and the meadows end, 
 And hedged fields slowly the hill ascend. 
 To the gentle breezes bending low. 
 Lazily bending, the bean-fiowers blow. 
 
 In winter the steaming horses toil 
 With the bright plough deep in the loamy soil ; 
 In spring the sower goes forth ta ? )w : 
 Sweet in the summer the bean-fiow ^rs blow. 
 
 Thither the bee with his ceaseless hum, 
 Thither the maids with their loveis come. 
 Pity that beauty cannot last ! 
 Pity the blossoms fade so fast ! 
 
 Oh, sweet the scent of the garden rose : 
 As sweet on the hill the bean-flower blows. 
 The bean to the threshing-floor shall come, 
 But the rose is not at the harvest home. 
 
 Maiden, what do the bean-flowers say ? 
 " Beauty but lasts for a little day ; 
 Who learns the lesson our blossoms tell, 
 May be sweet and lovely and good as well." 
 
 St. James Gazette. 
 
 M!f 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 lOI 
 
 TRAILING ARBUTUS. 
 
 In spring, when branches of woodbine 
 Hung leafless over the rocks, 
 
 And the fleecy snow in the hollows 
 Lay in unshepherded flocks, 
 
 By tl e road where the dead leaves rustled, 
 Or damply matted the ground, 
 
 While over me gurgled the robin 
 His honeyed passion of sound, 
 
 I saw the trailing arbutus 
 Blooming in modesty sweet, 
 
 And gathered store of its richness 
 Offered and spread at my feet. 
 
 It grew under leaves, as if seeking 
 No hint of itself to disclose. 
 
 And out of it.T pink-white petals 
 A delicate perfume rose. 
 
 As faint as the fond remembrance 
 Of joy that was only dreamed ; 
 And like a divine suggestion 
 • The scent of the flower seemed. 
 
 I had sought for love on the highway. 
 For love unselfish and pure, 
 
 And had found it in good deeds blooming. 
 Though often in haunts obscure. 
 
 Often in leaves by the wayside, 
 But touched with a heavenly glow, 
 
 And with self-sacrifice fragrant. 
 The flowers of great love grow. 
 
 O lovely and lowly arbutus I 
 As year unto year succeeds. 
 
 Be thou the laurel and emblem 
 Of noble, unselfish deeds. 
 The Academy, 
 
 Henry Abbey. 
 
 A FLOWER FROM THE CATSKILLS. 
 
 The orchards that climb the hillsides, 
 
 That lie in the valley below, 
 Are white in the soft May sunshine. 
 
 And fragrant with May-day snow. 
 The violets wakened by April 
 
 Their watch in the meadow yet keep, 
 The golden spurs of the columbine 
 
 Are hung where the lichens creep. 
 
1 1 
 •1 I 
 
 li* 
 
 1,1 
 
 I02 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Still gleams by the sluggish waters 
 
 Some loitermg marigold, 
 Where ferns, late greeting the sunshine, 
 
 Their downy green plumes unfold. 
 And just by the wooded waysides 
 
 Faint glows the azalea's blush, ^ 
 The dawn of the coming summer, 
 
 The morning's awakening flush I 
 
 But there where the wind-rent rain-clouds 
 
 O'ershadow the Catskills' crest. 
 There blossoms one flower more precious, 
 
 Far sweeter than all the rest. 
 Where scarcely a leaf has opened, 
 
 The promise of summer to give, 
 Where the lingering winds of winter 
 
 For the sleet and the snow-drift grieve. 
 
 Where the trees grow scant and stunted, 
 
 And scarcely a shadow is cast, 
 There nestles the trailing arbutus 
 
 Close, close to the hill's cold breast. 
 The storm-winds give to it courage, 
 
 The skies give it power to bless, 
 And it giveth to all its loving 
 
 In its happy thankfulness. , 
 
 Now pink as the lip of the sea-shell, 
 
 Now white as the breakers' foam, 
 It spreadeth its stainless treasure 
 
 To brighten its rugged home. 
 Low trailing amid the mosses 
 
 Its delicate blossoms lie, — 
 Giving the earth its beauty, 
 
 Its worship giving the sky. 
 
 Though bleak be the home that reared it, 
 
 And rough be its lullaby. 
 Gathering strength from the tempest. 
 
 And grace from the fair blue sky, 
 It waiteth with patient longing, 
 
 In the snow's embrace held fast, 
 Still tiusting, with faith unbroken, 
 
 The sun to welcome at last. — 
 
 To welcome with loving greeting 
 
 The soft falling step of spring, 
 Scarce felt on the northern hill-slopes. 
 
 Where the lingering snow-drifts cling; 
 And faint on the winds up-sweeping 
 
 Is wafted its perfume rare. 
 Like the incense of worship ascending, — 
 
 The mountains' low, unspoken prayer I 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 O brave little blossom ! still teach us 
 
 Through love to be patient and strong, 
 Though the spring he laggard in coming, 
 
 And the days be dark and long. 
 Like thy bloom by the rude ways scattered, 
 
 Each day some life may we bless, 
 Till our souls, like thy fragrance ascending, 
 
 Reach heavenly perfectness. 
 
 103 
 
 E, W 
 
 HEART'S-EASE. 
 
 Wiin.E o'er my life still hung the morning star. 
 
 Dreamy and soft in tender-lighted skies. 
 While care and sorrow held themselves afar, 
 And no sad mist of tears had dimmed my eyes, 
 I saw Love's roses blowing. 
 With scent and color glowing, 
 And so I wished for them with longing sighs. 
 
 The brightest hung so high, and held aloft 
 Their crimson faces, passionately bright ; 
 The gay, rich, golden ones escaped me oft, 
 
 And hedged Wi h sharpest thorns the lofty white ; 
 From all my eager pleading 
 They turned away, unheeding ; 
 Among Love's roses none were mine of right. 
 
 Yet, of sweet things, those roses seemed most sweet 
 
 And most desirable, until a voice, 
 Soft as sad music, said, " Lo, at thy feet 
 A little flower shall make thy heart rejoice." 
 And so, the voice obeying, 
 I saw, in beauty straying, 
 A wealth of heart's-ease, waiting for my choice. 
 
 Great purple pansies, each with snowy heart, 
 
 And golden ones, with eyes of deepest blue; 
 Some " freaked with jet," some pure white ones apart, 
 But all so sweet and fresh with morning dew, 
 I could not bear to lose them, 
 I could not help but choose them, 
 For -weet Content sat singing where they grew. 
 
 So, now, Love's roses shake their scented leaves, 
 
 But tempt me not to their enchanted quest ; 
 I gather " heart's-ease," set in dewy leaves, 
 And am content^ — for me it is lae best. 
 Be glad if, sweet and glowing, 
 You find Love's roses blowing — 
 I sing through life with heart's-ease at my breast 
 
(ii 
 
 104 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 HELIOTROPE. 
 
 How strong they arc, those subtile spells 
 That lurk in leaves and flower-bells, 
 
 Rising from faint perfumes ; 
 Or, mingling with some olden strain. 
 Strike through the music shafts of pain, 
 
 And people empty rooms. 
 
 They come upon us unaware, 
 In crowded halls and open air, 
 
 And in our chambers still ; 
 A song, an odor, or a bird 
 Evokes the spell and strikes the chord, 
 
 And all our pulses thrill. 
 
 I wandered but an hour ago. 
 
 With lagging footsteps tired and slow, 
 
 Along the garden walk ; 
 The summer twilight wrapped mc round, 
 Through open windows came the sound 
 
 Of song and pleasant talk. 
 
 The odor-stealing dews lay wet 
 And heavy on the mignonette 
 
 That crept about my feet ; 
 Upon the folded mossy vest 
 That clothed the ruby rose's breast 
 
 It fell in drojjpings sweet. 
 
 It fell on beds of purple bloom, 
 From whence arose the rare perfume 
 
 Of dainty heliotrope ; 
 "Which smote my heart with sudden power, 
 My favorite scent, my favorite flower, 
 
 In olden days of hope I 
 
 Ah, me ! the years have come and gone, 
 Each with its melody or moan, 
 
 Since that sunshiny hour, 
 When, for the sake of hands that brought, 
 And for the lesson sweet it taught, 
 
 I chose it for my flower. 
 
 Faint-scented blossoms I I^ong ago 
 Your purple clusters came to show 
 
 My life had wider scope ; 
 They spoke of love that day — to-night 
 I stand apart from love's delight, 
 
 And wear no heliotrope. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 Between to-night and that far day 
 
 Lie life's bright noon and twilight gray,' 
 
 lUit I have lived thrtnigh both; 
 And if before my paling face 
 The midnight shadows fall ajiacc, 
 
 I see them, nothing loath. 
 
 Only to-night that faint perfume 
 Reminds me of the lonely gloom 
 
 Of life outliving hope ; — 
 I wish I had been far to-night 
 What time the dew fell, silver-white, 
 
 Upon the heliotrope I 
 
 105 
 
 THE CLOVER. 
 
 Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
 
 And the pansies and pinks that the summer-time throws 
 
 In the green grassy lap of the mcdder that lays 
 
 Blinkin' up at the skies through the sunshiny days; 
 
 But what is the lily and all of the rest 
 
 Of the flowers to a man with a heart in his breast 
 
 That has dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew 
 
 Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood kne*v ? 
 
 I never set eyes on ri clover-field now, 
 
 Or fool round a stable, or climb in the mow. 
 
 But my childhood comes back, just as clear and as plain 
 
 As the smell of the clover I 'm sniffin' again ; 
 
 And I wander away in a barefooted dream. 
 
 Where I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam 
 
 With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love 
 
 Ere it wept o'er the graves that I 'm weepin* above. 
 
 And so I love clover — it seems like a part 
 Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my heart ; 
 And wherever it blossoms, oh, there let me bow. 
 And thank the good God as I 'm thankin' him now ; 
 And I pray to him still for the strength, when I die, 
 To go out in the clover and tell it good-by, 
 And lovingly nestle my face in its bloom. 
 While my soul slips away on a breath of perfume. 
 
 James Whitcomb Rii.ey. 
 
 THE VIOLET'S GRAVE. 
 
 The woodland, and the golden wedge 
 Of sunshine slipping through ; 
 
 And there, beside a bit of hedge, 
 A violet so blue I 
 
I06 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 So tender was its beauty, and 
 So douce and sweet its air, 
 
 I stooped, and yet withheld my hand — 
 Would pluck, and yet would spare. 
 
 l! 
 
 Now which was best ? For spring will pass, 
 
 And vernal beauty fly — 
 On maiden's breast or in the grass, 
 
 Where would you choose to die ? 
 
 From the Sicilian of Vicortari. 
 
 THE LILY AND THE LINDEN. 
 
 Far away under skies of blue, 
 In the pleasant land beyond the sea, 
 
 Jathed with sunlight and washed with dev/, 
 Budded and bloomed the fleur-de-lis. 
 
 i'< 
 
 liti 
 
 Through mists of morning, one by one, 
 Grandly the perfect leaves unfold, 
 
 And the dusky glow of the sinking sun 
 Flushed and deepened its hues of gold. 
 
 She saw him rise o'er the rolling Rhine, 
 She saw him set in the western sea, 
 
 " Where is the empress, garden mine, 
 Doth rule a realm like the fleur-de-lis ? 
 
 " The forest trembles before the breath, 
 From the island oak to the northern pine. 
 
 And the blossoms pale with the hue of death 
 When my anger rustles the tropic vine. 
 
 " The lotus wakes from its slumbers lone, 
 
 To waft its homage unto me. 
 And the spice-groves lay before ;ny throne 
 
 The tribute due to the fleur-de-lis I " 
 
 So hailed she vassals far and wide. 
 Till her glance swept over a henjisphere, 
 
 But noted not, in her queenly pride, 
 A slender sapling growing near. 
 
 Slow uprising o'er glade and glen. 
 Its branches bent in the breezes free, 
 
 But its roots were set in the hearts of men, 
 Who gave their life to the linden-tree. 
 
ViCORTARI. 
 
 UNDER THE OPEN SKY, 1 07 
 
 " Speak, O seer of the mighty mien I 
 
 Answer, sage of the mystic air t 
 What is the lot of the linden green ? 
 
 What is the fate of the lily fair ? " 
 
 " Hear'st thou the wail of the winter wake ? 
 
 Hear'st thou the ir of the angry sea ? 
 Ask not, for heave. .^ own thunders break 
 
 On the linden fair and the fleur-de-lis I " 
 
 The storm-clouds fade from the murky air, 
 
 Again the freshening breezes blow. 
 The sunbeams rest on the garden rare, 
 
 But the lily lies buried beneath the snow ! 
 
 From the ice-locked Rhine to the western sea 
 
 Mournfully spreads the wintry pall, 
 Cold and still is the fleur-de-lis, 
 
 Bu': the linden threatens to shadow all I 
 
 Frowning down on the forest wide. 
 
 Darkly loometh his giant form, 
 Alone he stands in his kingly pride, 
 
 And mocks at whirlwind and laughs at storm. 
 
 " Speak, O sage of the mystic air I 
 
 Answer, seer of the mighty mien I 
 Must all thy trees of the forest fair 
 
 Fall at the feet of the linden green ? " 
 
 " Wouldst thou the scroll of the future see ? 
 
 Thus I divine the fate of all ! 
 A worm is sapping the linden-tree. 
 
 The pride that goeth before a fall. 
 
 " For shame may come to the haughty crest, 
 A storm may sweep from the northern sea, 
 
 And winds from the east and winds from the west 
 May blow in wrath o'er the linden-tree I 
 
 " Here, where the voice of the vvinter grieves, 
 The lily hath lain its regal head ; 
 
 Bright was the gleam of the golden leaves, 
 But the lily was flecked with spots of red. 
 
 " Behind the clouds of the battle strife 
 
 The glow of resurrection see ! 
 Lo i ! proclaim a newer life. 
 
 The ^ruer birth of the fleur-de-lis 1 " 
 
io8 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Thus saith the seer of the mighty mien, 
 Thus saith the sage of the mystic air, 
 
 The sunshine fell from the linden green 
 And gilded the grave of the lily fair. 
 
 Stewart's Quarterly. Dr. Fred Crosuy, 
 
 ■ ♦ 
 
 RAIN. 
 
 Millions of massive rain-drops 
 
 Have fallen all around ; 
 They have danced on the house-tops, 
 
 They have hidden in the ground. 
 
 They were liquid like musicians 
 
 With anything for keys, 
 Beating tunes upon the windows. 
 
 Keeping time upon the trees. 
 
 PROMISE. 
 
 There is a rainbow in the sky, 
 
 Upor. the arch where tempests trod ; 
 
 God wrote it ere the world was dry — 
 It is the autograph of God. 
 
 Note. — This quatrain was cut from the body of a poem which contained 
 little else of worth, and the very litle of which is now forgotten. 
 
 !l 
 
 WHAT THEY DREAMED AND SAID. 
 
 Rose dreamed she was a lily, 
 Lily dreamed she was a rose ; 
 
 Robin dreamed he was a sparrow, 
 W hat the owl dreamea no one knows. 
 
 But they all woke up together 
 
 As happy as could be. 
 Said each one : " You 're lovely, neighbor, 
 
 But I 'm very glad I 'm me.' 
 
 M. E. 
 
 THE WANDERER. 
 
 Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, 
 
 I found a shell ; 
 And to my listening ear this lonely thing 
 Ever a song of ocean seemed to smg, — 
 
 Ever a tale uf ocean seemed to tell. 
 
X09 
 
 ED CrOSUY, 
 
 ich contained 
 
 UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 How came this shell upon the mountain height ? 
 
 Ah, who can say 
 Whether there dropped by some too careless hand, 
 Whether there cast when oceans swept the land. 
 
 Ere the Eternal had ordained the day ? 
 
 Strange, was it not ? Far from its native deep, 
 
 cine song it sang : 
 Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide. 
 Sang of the storied sea, profound and wide, — 
 
 Ever with echoes of old ocean rang. 
 
 And as the shell upon the mountain height 
 
 Sang of the sea. 
 So do I ever, leagues and leagues away, 
 So do I ever, wandering where I may. 
 
 Sing, O my home I sing, O my home, of thee I 
 
 Eugene Fikld. 
 
 METEORS. 
 
 Tears of gold the heavens wept ; 
 They fell and were by billows swept 
 Into the sea, 'mid coral caves. 
 Where roll the ever-restless waves. 
 
 And thus they lay, till they were found 
 By mermaids on the ocean's ground. 
 The sea-nymphs took the gems so rare, 
 And wound them in their sea-green hair. 
 
 And often now some summer's night 
 The ocean gleams with golden light 
 Caused by the mermaids sporting there 
 With tears of gold in flowing hair. 
 
 Anna Ph. Eichberg. 
 
 A BROOK SONG. 
 
 I *M hastening from the distant hills 
 
 With swift and noisy flowing ; 
 Nursed by a thousand tiny rills, 
 
 I 'm ever onward going. 
 The willows cannot stay my course, 
 
 With all their i)liant wooing ; 
 I sing and sing till I am hoarse, 
 
 My prattling way pursuing. 
 I kiss the pebbles as I pass, 
 
 And hear them say they love me, 
 
XIO 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I make obeisance to the grass 
 
 That kindly bends above me. 
 So onward through the meads and dells 
 
 I hasten, never knowing 
 The secret motive that impels, 
 
 Or whither I am going. 
 
 A little child comes often here 
 
 To watch my quaint commotion 
 As I go tumbhng swift and clear 
 
 Down to the distant ocean ; 
 And as he plays upon my brink, 
 
 So thoughtless like and merry 
 And full of noisy song, I think 
 
 The child is like me, very. 
 Through all the years of youthful play, 
 
 With ne'er a thought of sorrow, 
 We, prattling, speed upon our way, 
 
 Unmindful of the morrow ; 
 Aye, through these sunny meads and dells 
 
 We gambol, never trowing 
 The solemn motive that impels. 
 
 Or whither we are going. 
 
 And nen come here to say to me : 
 
 " Like you, with weird commotion, 
 O little singing brooklet, we 
 
 Are hastening to the ocean ; 
 Down to a vast and misty deep, 
 
 With fleeting tears and laughter 
 We go, nor rest until we sleep 
 
 In that profound Hereafter. 
 What tides may bear our souls along. 
 
 What monsters rise appalling, 
 What distant shores may hear our song 
 
 And answer to our calling ? 
 Ah, who can say ! Through meads and delis 
 
 Wt wander, never knowing 
 The awful motive that impels. 
 
 Or whither we are going ! " 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 THE PRAIRIE PATH. 
 
 Upon the brown and frozen sod 
 
 The wind's wet fingers shake the rain ; 
 The bare shrubs shiver in the blast 
 
 Against the dripping window-pane. 
 Inside, strange shadows haunt the room. 
 
 The flickering firelights rise and fall, 
 And make I know not what strange shapes 
 
 Upon the pale gray parlor wall. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I feel, but do not see these things, — 
 
 My soul stands under other skies ; 
 There is a wondrous radiance comes 
 
 Between my eyelids and my eyes. 
 I seem to pull down on my feet 
 
 God's gentian flowers, as on I pass 
 Through a great prairie, still and sweet 
 
 With growing vines and blowing grass. 
 
 And then — ah ! whence can he have come .' ■ 
 
 I feel a small hand touching mine ; 
 Our voices first are like the breath 
 
 That sways the grass and scented vine. 
 But clearer grow the childish words 
 
 Of Egypt and of Hindostan ; 
 And Archie 's telling me again 
 
 Where he will go when he 's a man. 
 
 The smell of pines is strangely blent 
 
 With sandal-wood, and broken spice, 
 And cores of calamus ; the flowers 
 
 Grow into gems of wondrous price. 
 We sit down in the grass and dream ; 
 
 His face grows strangely bright and fair ; 
 I think it is the amber gleam 
 
 Of sunset in his pale gold hair. 
 
 But while I look I see a path 
 
 Across the prairie to the light ; 
 And Archie, with his small, bare feet. 
 
 Has almost passed beyond my sight. 
 Upon my heart there falls a smile, 
 
 Upon my ears a soft adieu : 
 I see the glory in his face, 
 
 And know his dreams have all come true. 
 
 Some day I shall go hence and home, — 
 
 We shall go hence, I mean to say ; 
 And as we pass the shoals of time, 
 
 " My brother," I shall, pleading, say, 
 ** There was upon the prairie wide 
 
 A spot so dear to thee and me, 
 I fain would see it ere we walk 
 
 The fields of Immortality." 
 
 A SUMMER PICTURE. 
 
 From saffron to yellow, from purple to gray. 
 Slow fades on the mountain the beautiful day; 
 I sit when the roses ate heavy with bloom. 
 And wait tor the moonlight to whiten the gloom. 
 
112 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Far down the green valley I see through the night 
 The lamps of the village shine steady and bright ; 
 But on my sweet silence there creeps not a tone 
 Of labor or sorrow, of pleading or moan. 
 
 Low sings the glad river along its dark way, 
 An echo by night of its chiming by day; 
 And tremulous branches lean down to the tide, 
 To dimple the waters that under them glide. 
 
 The night moths are flitting about in the gloom, 
 Their wings from the blossoms shake dainty perfume ; 
 I know where the cups of the lilies are fair, 
 By the breath of their sweetness that floats on the air. 
 
 I sit in the shadow ; but lo ! in the west 
 
 The mountains in garments of glory are drest ! 
 
 And slowly the sheen of their brightness drops down 
 
 To rest on the hills in a luminous crown. 
 
 The dew glitters clear where the shadows are green ; 
 In ranks of white splendor the lilies are seen ; 
 And the roses above me sway lightly to greet 
 Their shadowy sisters, afloat at my feet. 
 
 Low sings the glad river; its wate/s alight, 
 A pathway of silver, lead on throu£,h the night ; 
 And fair as the glorified isles of the Mest 
 Lies all the sweet valley, the valley of rest. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 'T IS the golden gleam of an autumn day, 
 Wiih the soft rain raining as if in play ; 
 And a tender touch upon everything, 
 As if autumn remembered the days of spring. 
 
 In the listening woods there is not a breath 
 To shake their gold to the sward beneath; 
 And a glow as of sunshine on them lies, 
 Though the sun is hid in the shadowed skies. 
 
 The cock's clear crow from the farmyard comes, 
 The muffled bell from the belfry booms. 
 And faint and dim, and from far away, 
 Come the voices of children in happy play. 
 
UNDER TUE OPEN SKY. 
 
 O'er the mountains the white rain draws its veil, 
 And the black rooks, cawing, across them sail ; 
 While nearer the swooping swallows skim 
 O'er the steel-gray river's fretted brim. 
 
 No sorrow upon the landscape weighs, 
 No fief for the vanished summer days ; 
 But a sense of peaceful and calm repose 
 Like that which age in autumn knows. 
 
 The springtime longings are past and gone. 
 The passions of summer no longer are known, 
 The harvest is gathered, and autumn stands 
 Serenely thoughtful, with folded hands. 
 
 Over all is thrown a memorial hue, 
 A glory ideal the real ne'er knew ; 
 For memory sifts from the past its pain, 
 And suffers its beauty alone to remain. 
 
 With half a smile and half a sigh 
 It ponders the past that has hurried by : 
 Sees it and feels it and loves it all. 
 Content it has vanished beyond recall. 
 
 O glorious autumn, thus serene. 
 Thus living and loving all that has beenl 
 Thus calm and contented let me be 
 When the autumn of age shall come to me. 
 Blackwood. 
 
 "3 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Where are the flowers } where the leaves ? 
 
 Where the sweet zephyrs' gentle breath 1 
 Where mellowed fruits and golden sheaves ? 
 
 Dead, dead ; all icy bound in death ! 
 Is Love too dead ? Hence, needless pain I 
 Love only sleeps to wake again. 
 Love dead ? Ah, no, not so with Love I 
 Love only dies to live above. 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 Thou dark-robed man witl solemn pace, 
 And mantle muffled round thy facp, 
 Like the dim vision seen by Saul, 
 Upraised by spells from Death's dark hall ; 
 
 8 
 
114 ^^^ HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Thou sad, small man. — face thin and old, 
 
 Teeth set, and nose pinched blue and cold, — 
 
 Ne'er mind I Thy coat, so long and black. 
 
 And fitting round thee all so slack, 
 
 Has glorious spangles, and its stars 
 
 Are like a conqueror's fresh from wars. 
 
 Who wove it in Time's awful loom 
 
 With woof of glory, warp of gloom ? 
 
 Jove's planet glitters on thy breast ; 
 
 The morning star adorns thy crest ; 
 
 The waxing or the waning moon 
 
 Clings to thy turban late or soon ; 
 
 Orion's belt is thine, — thy thigh 
 
 His jewelled sword hangs briefly by ; 
 
 The Pleiades seven, the Gypsy's star. 
 
 Shine as thy shoulder-knots afar ; 
 
 And the great Dog-star, bright, unknown, 
 
 Blazes beside thee like a throne. 
 
 Take heart ! Thy coat, so long and black, 
 
 Sore worn, and fitting round thee slack. 
 
 Is broidered by the Northern Lights, 
 
 Those silvery arrows shot by sprites, — 
 
 Is powdered by the Milky Way 
 
 With awful pearls unknown to day. 
 
 Which well make up for all the hues 
 
 Proud Summer, bridegroom-like, may use. 
 
 Proud Summer, with his roses' sheen. 
 
 And dress of scarlet, blue, and green, 
 
 Floods us with such a sea of light 
 
 We miss the faint, far isles of Night, 
 
 And thoughtless dance, while he with lutes 
 
 Beguiles us or assists to fruits ; 
 
 But like a shade from Spirit-land 
 
 Dim Winter beckons with his hand, — 
 
 He beckons ; all things darker grow, 
 
 Save white-churned waves and wreathing snow. 
 
 We pause ; a chill creeps through our veins ; 
 
 We dare not thank him for his pains ; 
 
 We fear to follow, and we creep 
 
 To candle-light, to cards, to sleep. 
 
 Yet when we follow him, how deep 
 
 The secret he has got to keep ! 
 
 How wonderful I how passing grand ! 
 
 For, peering through his storms, there stand 
 
 The eternal cities of the sky, 
 
 With stars like street-lamps hung on high ; 
 
 No angel yet can sum their wortn, 
 
 Though angels sang when they had birth. 
 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 
 
 "5 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 There comes a month in the weary year, — 
 A month of leisure and healthful rest ; 
 
 When the ripe leaves fall and the air is clear, — 
 October, the brown, the crisp, the blest. 
 
 My life has little enough of bliss ; 
 
 I drag the days of the odd eleven, 
 Counting the time that shall lead to this,— 
 
 The month that opens the hunter's heaven. 
 
 And oh 1 for the mornings crisp and white, 
 With the sweep of the hounds upon the track ; 
 
 The bark-roofed cabin, the camp-fire's light. 
 The break c: the deer, and the rifle's crack I 
 
 Do you call this trifling ? I tell you, friend, 
 
 A life in the forest is past all praise ; 
 Give me a dozen such months on end. 
 
 You may take my balance of years and days. 
 
 For brick and mortar breed filth and crime. 
 And a pulsi of evil that throbs and beats ; 
 
 And men grow withered before their prime. 
 With the curse paved in on the lanes and streets ; 
 
 And lungs are choked, and shoulders are bowed, 
 In the smoking reek of mill and mine ; 
 
 And Death stalks in on the struggling crowd. 
 But he shuns the shadow of oak and pine. 
 
 And of all to which the memory clings. 
 
 There is nought so sweet as the sunny spots 
 
 Where our shanties stood by the crystal springs, 
 The vanished hounds and the lucky shots. 
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 Oh, haunting dreams of a sweet summer dead ! 
 
 Ye bring me heart-ache in your whispers low, ■ 
 Echoes of song I may not hear again, 
 
 Voices whose tones were silent long ago ; 
 Visions of orchards crowned with bridal bloom. 
 
 Where apple-blcssoms scent the air of May, 
 And *roni the sloping hillside comes the sound 
 
 Of sweet-voiced children at their happy play. 
 
ii6 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 i 
 
 There is a low, sad rustle in the air, 
 
 Among the yellow banners of the corn ; 
 The faded sunflower droops her heavy head. 
 
 The garden border of its wealth is shorn. 
 A subtile stillness broods o'er all the scene, 
 
 The benediction of the year has come ; 
 The sheaves are garnered from the fading field, 
 
 The husbandman h"" "ung the " Harvest Home." 
 
 In faded meadowi , ,.e the partridge trills 
 
 His clear, loud song to call his wandering mate, 
 The streams are shallow and the grasses brown. 
 
 Where scarlet poppies flecked the field but late. 
 There is a whisper in the falling stream, 
 
 A sigh through all the aisles of forest trees, 
 A tremulous vibration in the songs 
 
 The wild birds pour upon the evening breeze. 
 
 The sweet, dead days will come to us no more ; 
 
 New summers may bring harvests of delight. 
 Fair days may dawn with eyes of splendid hue, 
 
 They cannot shine so infinitely bright 
 As the sweet, vanished hours which we have lost ; 
 
 Or are they only garnered safe and sure, 
 To wait for us in some far, future world. 
 
 Where summers shall eternally endure ? 
 
 The rustling leaves drop softly at my feet, 
 Warm airs caress my cheeks with loving kiss, 
 
 No chill of autumn shivers in the air, 
 Yet something indefinable I miss. 
 
 Summer sweet, if never more on earth 
 I may rejoice in all your beauty rare, 
 
 1 cannot say farewell, for we shall meet 
 
 Where you will bloom more infinitely fair. 
 
 Church's Musical Visitor. D. M. JORDAN. 
 
 LATE OCTOBER. 
 
 How peacefully the sunlight fell 
 
 Across the woodland's pleasant reaches. 
 And like a shower of gilded rain 
 
 The leaves dropped from the golden beeches ! 
 Far down the shadowy aisles I heard 
 
 An undertone of plaintive sighing. 
 As if the waning Summer wept 
 
 For all her glories dead and dying. 
 
 The golden-rod, with drooping plume. 
 
 Had lost its aureole of gladness ; 
 The starless mullein by the road 
 
 Dropped down its seeds like tears of sadness ; 
 
UNDER THE OPEN SKY. 217 
 
 The far-off hill, veiled like a bride, 
 Seemed wedded to the sky immortal ; 
 
 And through the sunset's golden gate 
 There flashed the gleam of heaven's portal. 
 
 O peaceful hour, O faith renewed, 
 
 That touched the fading earth with sweetness, 
 And lifted up my heart in thanks 
 
 For life's glad measure of completeness I 
 Though dead leaves rustle at my feet, 
 
 And all the fields are brown and sober, 
 The heart may blossom with new hope 
 
 Beneath the gray skies of October. 
 
 Cincinnati Commercial. D. M. Jordan. 
 
 MOON AND DAWN. 
 
 The bluest gray — the grayest blue, 
 Where golden, gleaming stars are set ; 
 
 A moon whose glorious yellow waves 
 Make fair the rippled rivulet. 
 
 Night has her curtain over all ; 
 
 The firs show dark ag.iinst the sky ; 
 The only sound is in the song 
 
 Of a late nightingale close by. 
 
 The wooded walks, which seemed so sweet 
 Seen in the morning's fairy light, 
 
 Now, dim and shadowy, hold no charm 
 Save the mysterious charm of night. 
 
 One swallow stirs, the gold stars fade, 
 In the cold sky a chill wind wakes ; 
 
 The gray clouds frighten out the morn. 
 And through pale mist the new day breaks. 
 
 Good-morn — good-night — which is the best ? 
 
 God grant some day that I may find 
 Both true : good-morn to joy begun, 
 
 Good-night to sorrows left behind. 
 
 Sunday Magazine. 
 
 ••WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN." 
 
 When the frost is on the punkm and the fodder 's in the shock. 
 And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey- 
 cock. 
 And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, 
 And the rooster's hallelooyer as he tiptoes on the fence, 
 
ii8 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Oh, it 's then 's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, 
 
 With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gracious rest, 
 
 As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the 
 
 stock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder 's in the shock. 
 
 There 's somepin kind o' hearty-like about the atmosphere 
 When the heat of summer 's over and the coolin' fall is here. 
 Of cours we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, 
 And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and the buzzin' of the bees ; 
 But the air 's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze 
 Of a crisp and sunny morning of ths early autumn days 
 Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder 's in the shock. 
 
 The husky, rusty rustle of the tassels oi the corn, 
 And the raspin' of the tangled leaves as golden as the morn ; 
 The stubble in the furries — kind o' lonesome like, but still 
 A preachin' sermons to us of the barns they g.owed to fill ; 
 The straw-stack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed, 
 The bosses in their stalls below, the clover overhead, — 
 Oh, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder 's in the shock. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 ii 
 
 IN SNOW-TIME. 
 
 -lOW should I choose to walk the world with thee. 
 
 Mine own beloved ? When green grass is stirred 
 
 By summer breezes, and each leafy tree 
 
 Shelters the nest of many a singing bird ? 
 
 In time of roses, when the earth doth lie 
 
 Dressed in a garment of midsummer hues. 
 
 Beneath a canopy of sapphire sky. 
 
 Lulled by a soft wind's song ? Or should I choose 
 
 To walk with thee along a wintry road, 
 
 Through flowerless fields, thick-sown with frosty rime. 
 
 Beside an ice-bound stream, whose waters flowed 
 
 In voiceless music all the summer-time ? 
 
 In winter dreariness, or summer glee. 
 
 How should I choose to walk the world with thee ? 
 
 The time of roses is the time of love. 
 Ah, my dear heart I but winter fires are bright, 
 And in the lack of sunshine from above 
 We tend more carefully love's sacred light. 
 The path among the roses lieth soft 
 Sun-kissed and radiant under youthful feet ; 
 But on a wintry way true hands more oft 
 . Do meet and cling in pressure close and sweet. 
 
II the shock. 
 
 UNDER THE OPEN SKY, 119 
 
 There is more need of love's supporting arm 
 Along life's slippery pathway, in its frost; 
 There is more need for love to wrap us warm 
 Against life's cold, when summer flowers are lost. 
 Let others share thy life's glad summer glow, 
 But let me walk beside thee in its snow. 
 
 THE TROUT-BROOK. 
 
 You see it first near the dusty road, 
 Where the farmer stops with his heavy load, 
 
 At the foot of a weary hill ; 
 There the mossy trough it overflows, 
 Then away, witn a leap and a laugh, it goes 
 
 At Its own sweet, wandering will. 
 
 It flows through an orchard gnarled and old, 
 Where in spring the dainty buds unfold 
 
 Their petals pink and white ; 
 The apple-blossoms, so sweet and pure, 
 The streamlet's smiles and songs allure 
 
 To float off on its ripples bright. 
 
 It winds through the meadow, scarcely seen, 
 For o'er it the flowers and grasses lean 
 
 To salute its smiling face. 
 And thus, half hidden, it ripples along, 
 The whole way singing its summer song, 
 
 Making glad each arid place. 
 
 Just there, where the water, dark and cool, 
 Lingers a moment in yonder pool. 
 
 The dainty trout are at play ; 
 And now and then one leaps in sight, 
 With sides aglow in the golden light 
 
 Of the long, sweet summer day. 
 
 Oh, back to their shelves those books consign, 
 An'd look to your rod and reel and line, 
 
 Make fast the feathered hook ; 
 Then away from the town with its hum of life, 
 Where the air with worry and work is rife, 
 
 To the charms of the meadow brook. 
 
 Carl Waring. 
 
'/ 1 
 
 M 
 
 120 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 THE CLOUD. 
 
 A CLOUO came over a land of leaves 
 
 (Oh, hush, little leaves, lest it pass you by!) — 
 How they had waited and watched for the rain, 
 Mountain and valley, and vineyard and plain, 
 
 With never a sign from the sky I 
 Day after day had the pitiless sun 
 
 Looked down with a lidless eye. 
 
 But now I On a sudden a whisper went 
 Through the topmost twigs of the poplar spire ; 
 
 Out of the east a light wind blew ; 
 
 (All the leaves trembled, and murmured, and drew 
 Hope to the help of desire) ; 
 
 It stirred the faint pulse of the forest tree. 
 And breathed through the brake and the brier. 
 
 Slowly the cloud came, and then the wind died. 
 Dumb lay the land in its hot suspense ; 
 
 The thrush on the elm-bough suddenly stopped, 
 
 The weather-warned swallow in mid-flying dropped. 
 The linnet ceased song in the fence ; — 
 
 Mule the cloud moved, till it hung overhead, 
 Heavy, big-bosomed, and dense. 
 
 Ah, the cool rush through the dry-tongued trees, 
 The patter and plash on the thirsty earth, 
 
 ■^he eager bubbling of runnel and rill, 
 
 The lisping of leavf-s that have drunk their fill. 
 The freshness that follows the dearth I 
 
 New life for the woodland, the vineyard, the vale. 
 New life with the world's new birth 1 
 
1)- 
 
 in, 
 
 3ire; 
 drew 
 
 ler. 
 
 i, 
 
 ■d, 
 ipped, 
 
 PART V. 
 
 Kobe, Sentiment, anb ftitt^»f^ip. 
 
 
 ale, 
 
i 
 
 The fountains mingle with the river. 
 
 And the rivers -with the ocean. 
 The winds of heaven mix forever 
 
 With a sweet emotion ; 
 Nothing in the world is single ; 
 
 All tilings by a law divine 
 In one another'' s being mingle— 
 
 Why not I with thine ? 
 
 See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
 
 And the waves clasp one another ; 
 No sister flower would be forgiven 
 
 If it disdained its brother: 
 And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
 
 And the moonbeams kiss the sea, — 
 What are all these hissings worth, 
 
 If thou kiss not me? 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 H 
 
PART V. 
 
 Hobe, J^enttment, anb fvitt^tsif^ip. 
 
 THE AGE OF LOVE. 
 
 *• Prithee, tell me, Dimple Chin, 
 
 At what age does love begin ? 
 
 " Oh 1 " the rosy lips reply, 
 
 " I can't tell you if I try. 
 
 'T is so long I can't remember ; 
 
 Ask some younger miss than 1 1 " 
 
 " Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled Face, 
 
 Do your heart and head keep pace ? 
 
 When does hoary love expire ? 
 
 When do frosts put out the fire ? " 
 
 " Ah I " the wise old lips reply, 
 
 " Youth may pass, and strength may die ; 
 
 But for love ! — I can't foretoken; 
 
 Ask some older sage than 1 1 " 
 
 WHEN WILL LOVE COME? 
 
 Some find Love late, some find him soon, 
 
 Some with the rose in May, 
 Some with the nightingale in June, 
 
 And some when skies are gray ; 
 Love comes to some with smiling e)'es. 
 
 And comes with tears to some ; 
 For some Love sings, for some Love sighs, 
 
 For some Love's lips are dumb. 
 How will you come to me, fair Love ? 
 
 Will you come late or soon ? 
 With sad or smiling skies above, 
 
 By light of sun or moon f 
 Will you be sad, will you be sweet, 
 
 Sing, sigh, Love, or be dumb ? 
 Will it be summer when we meet, 
 
 Or autumn ere you come ? 
 
 Pakenham Beatty. 
 
124 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 |i 
 
 A LOVE'S LIFE. 
 
 'T WAS springtime of the day and year ; 
 
 Clouds of white fragrance hid the thorn. 
 My heart unto her heart drew near, 
 
 And ere the dew had fled the morn, 
 Sweet Love was born. 
 
 An August noon, an hour of bliss, 
 That stands amid my hours alonCj 
 
 A word, a look, then — ah, that kiss I 
 Joy's veil was rent, her secret known ; 
 Love was full-grown. 
 
 And now this drear November eve. 
 
 What has to-day seen done, heard said ? 
 It boots not ; who has tears to grieve 
 For that last leaf yon tree has shed, 
 Or for Love dead ? 
 Chambers's yournal. 
 
 THIS YEAR — NEXT YEAR. 
 
 This year — next year — sometime — never, 
 
 Gayly did she tell ; 
 Rose-leaf after rose-leaf ever 
 
 Eddied round and fell. 
 
 This year — and she blushed demurely ; 
 
 That would be too soon ; 
 He could wait a little, surely, 
 
 'T is already June. 
 
 Next year — that *s almost too hurried, 
 
 Laughingly said she ; 
 For when onre a girl is married, 
 
 She no more is free. 
 
 Sometime — that is vague — long waiting 
 
 Many a trouble brings ; 
 'Twixt delaying and debating 
 
 Love might use its wings. 
 
 Never — word of evil omen, 
 
 And she sighed, heigh-ho, — 
 'T is the hardest lot for women 
 
 T one through life to go. 
 
 Next year — early in the May-time, 
 
 Was to be the day ; 
 Looked she sweetly toward that gay time 
 
 Gleaming far away. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 1 25 
 
 Never — fair with bridal flowers 
 
 Came that merry spring ; 
 Ere those bright ana radiant hours 
 
 She had taken wing. 
 
 This year — hearts are bound by sorrow ; 
 
 Next year — some forget ; 
 Sometime — comes that golden morrow ; 
 
 Never — earth say yet. 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the day but one ; 
 Yet the light of the bright world dies 
 
 With the dying sun. 
 
 The mind has a thousand eyes, 
 
 And the heart but one ; 
 Yet the light of a whole life dies 
 
 When love is done. 
 
 Francis W. Bourdillon. 
 
 LOVE AND PITY. 
 
 Love came a beggar to her gate, 
 The night was drear, the hour was late. 
 And through the gloom she heard his moan 
 Where at the gate he stood alone. 
 
 His rounded form in rags was clad. 
 His weeping eyes were wan and sad ; 
 But hid beneath his garb of woe 
 He bore his arrows and his bow. 
 
 She wept to see the beggar weep, 
 She bade him on her bosom sleep. 
 His wretched plight allayed her fears. 
 She ki^ised ana bathed him with her tears. 
 
 The merry eyes began to glow, 
 The rosy hand essayed the bow, 
 The rough disguise was cast aside. 
 And laughing Love for mercy cried. 
 
 Love came a beggar to her gate, 
 More wisely than with pomp and state ; 
 For who hath woman's pity won 
 May count love's siege and. battle done. 
 
' / 
 
 126 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 COULDN'T KEEP A SECRET. 
 
 I TOLD my secret to the sweet wild roses, 
 
 Heavy with dew, new waking in the morn ; 
 And they had breathed it to a thousand others 
 
 Before another day was slowly born. 
 " Oh, fickle roses," said I, " you shall perish I " 
 
 So plucked them for my lady sweet to wear 
 In the pure silence of her maiden bosom, 
 
 The curled luxuriance of her chestnut hair. 
 
 I told the secret to a bird new building 
 
 Her nest at peace within the spreading tree ; 
 And ere her children had begun to chatter, 
 
 She told it o'er and o'er right joyously. 
 " Oh, traitor bird," I whispered, "stay thy singing, 
 
 Thou dost not know, there in thy nest above, 
 That secrets are not made to tell to others. 
 
 That silence is the birthright of true love." 
 
 I told the secret to my love, my lady ; 
 
 She held it closely to her darling breast. 
 Then, as I clasped her, came a tiny whisper : 
 
 " The birds and flowers told me all the rest, 
 Nor shouldst thou chide them that they spake the secret ; 
 
 The whole world is a chord of love divine. 
 And birds and flowers but fulfil their mission 
 
 In telling secrets sweet as mine and thine." 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 |i 
 
 WHAT MY LOVER SAID. 
 
 By the merest chance, in the twilight gloom. 
 
 In the orchard path he met me. 
 In the tall wet grass with its faint perfume. 
 And I tried to pass, but he made no room ; 
 
 Oh, I tripd, but he would not let me I 
 So I stood and blushed till the grass grew red, 
 
 With my face bent down above it. 
 While he took my hand, as he whispering said - 
 How the clover lifted its pink, sweet head. 
 To listen to all that my lover said ! 
 
 Oh, the clover in bloom ! I love it. 
 
 In the high, wet grass went the path to hide. 
 
 And the low wet leaves hung over ; 
 But I could not pass on either side. 
 For I found myself, when I vainly tried. 
 In the arms of my steadfast lover. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 12 7 
 
 And he held me there and he raised my head, 
 
 While he closed the path before me, 
 And he looked dovn into my eyes and said — 
 Ho\. the leaves bent down from the boughs o'erhead, 
 * To listen to all that my lover said. 
 
 Oh, the leaves hangmg lowly o'er me I 
 
 I am sure he knew, when he held me fast, 
 
 That I must be all unwilling; 
 For I tried to go, and I would have passed. 
 As the night was come with its dews at last, 
 
 And the skies with stars was filling. 
 But he clasped me close, when I would have fled, 
 
 And he made me hear his story. 
 And his soul came out from his lips, and said — 
 How the stars crept out, when the white moon led, 
 To listen to all that my lover said. 
 
 Oh, the moon and the stars in glory ! 
 
 I know that the grass and the leaves will not tell. 
 And I 'm sure that the wind, precious rover. 
 
 Will carry his secret so safely and well 
 That no being shall ever discover 
 
 One word of the many that rapidly fell 
 From the eager lips of my lover. 
 And the moon and the stars that looked over 
 
 Shall never reveal what a fairy-like spell 
 
 They wove round about us that night in the dell, 
 In the path through the dew-laden clover ; 
 
 Nor echo the whispers that made my heart swell 
 As they fell from the lips of my lover. 
 
 Boston Transcript. 
 
 LOVE'S TRANSFIGURATION. 
 
 O STRANGE sweet loveliness ! O tender grace, 
 
 That in the light of passion's dayspring threw 
 Soft splendor on a fair familiar face. 
 
 Changing it, yet unchanged and old, yet new I 
 Perfect the portrait in my heart, and true. 
 
 Which traced the smile about the flower-like mouth, 
 And those gray eyes with just a doubt of blue, 
 
 Yet darkened with the passion of the South. 
 And the white arch of thoughtful forehead crowned 
 With meeting waves of hair; — but still I found 
 Some undreamt light of tenderness that fell 
 
 From the new dawn, and made more fair to see 
 What was so fair, that now no song can tell 
 
 How lovely seemed thy love-lit face to me. 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
I:: 
 
 I ' 
 
 
 li 
 
 h- 
 
 l 
 
 128 THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 LOVE'S BELIEF. 
 
 I BELIEVE if I should die. 
 And you should kiss my eyelids where I lie 
 Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains, 
 The folded orbs would open at thy breath, 
 And, from its exile in the Isles of Death, 
 Life would come gladly back along my veins. 
 
 II. 
 
 I believe if I were dead, 
 
 And you upon my lifeless heart should tread, — 
 
 Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to be, — 
 
 It would find sudden pulse beneath the touch 
 
 Of him it ever loved in life so much, 
 
 And throb again, warm, tender, true to thee. 
 
 III. 
 
 I believe if in my grave, 
 
 Hidden in woody deeps all by the wave, 
 
 Your eyes should drop some warm tears of regret, 
 
 From every salty seed of your deep grief 
 
 Some fair, sweet blossom would leap into leaf, 
 
 To prove that death could not make my love forget. 
 
 IV. 
 
 I believe if I should fade 
 
 Into that realm where light is made, 
 
 And you should long once more my face to see, 
 
 I would come forth upon the hills of night 
 
 And gather stars like fagots, till thy sight. 
 
 Fed by the beacon-blaze, fell full on me. 
 
 I believe my love for thee 
 
 (Strong as my life) so nobly placed to be. 
 
 It could as soon expect to see the sun 
 
 Fall like a dead king from his heights sublime, 
 
 His glory stricken from the throne of time, 
 
 As thee unworthy the worship thou hast won. 
 
 V. 
 
 I believe who has not loved 
 
 Hath half the treasure of his life unproved, 
 
 Like one who, with the grape within his grasp, 
 
 Drops it, with all its crimson juice unpressed, 
 
 And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed, 
 
 Out of his careless and unheeding grasp. 
 
 I believe love, pure and true, 
 
 Is to the soul a sweet, immortal dew 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 1 29 
 
 That gems life's petals in the hour of dusk ; 
 The waiting angels sec and recognize 
 The rich crown-jewel love of Paradise, 
 When life falls from us like a withered husk. 
 
 LIGHT AND LOVE. 
 
 If light should strike through every darkened place, 
 
 How many a deed of darkness and of shame 
 Would cea.se, arrested by its gentle grace, 
 
 And striving virtue rise, unscathed by blame ! 
 
 The prisoner in his cell new hopes would frame. 
 The miner catch the metal's lurking trace, 
 The sage would grasp the ills that harm our race. 
 
 And unknown heroes leap to sudden fame. 
 If love but one short hour had perfect sway. 
 
 How many a rankling sore its touch would heal, 
 How many a misconception pass away. 
 
 And hearts long hardened learn at last to feel : 
 What sympathies would wake, what feuds decay 
 If perfect love might reign but one short day ! 
 T/ie Academy. 
 
 FRIEND OR FOE? 
 
 Patter ! patter ! running feet ! 
 Something stirring in the street I 
 Does it come, or does it go ? 
 Patter ! patter I Friend or foe ? 
 
 Love, the merry tricksy sprite, 
 In my lantern sits to-night. 
 Be it coming, friend or foe, 
 Love v.'iii *' show him up " I know. 
 
 Patter ! patter ! nearer still ; 
 
 Shall I ? — no — I — yes — 1 will. 
 
 «' Who goes there ? " — " It 's only me I " 
 
 Ah I my little pet Marie ! 
 
 Merry, loving, fond, and fair, 
 
 In the dark I see you there. 
 
 Still the sentry I will play : 
 
 ** There 's a password, love, to say." 
 
 What ! She cannot answer me ? 
 Has she lost her tongue, may be ? 
 Never mind, love ; face full well 
 Tells what lips refuse to tell ! 
 
 9 
 
130 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Passwords, questions, little one, 
 We can quite well leave alone. 
 Other folks than we, I know. 
 Shall solve our riddle : Friend or foe ? 
 
 F. E. Weatherly. 
 
 LOVE'S LOGIC. 
 
 I. Her Respectable Papa's. 
 
 " My dear, be sensible I Upon my word 
 This — for a woman even — is absurd ; 
 His income 's not a hundred pounds, I know. 
 He 's not worth loving." — •' But I love him so." 
 
 II. Her Mother's. 
 
 " You silly child, he is well made and tall ; 
 But looks are far from being all in all. 
 His social standing 's low, his family 's low. 
 He 's not worth loving." — *' And I love him so." 
 
 III. Her Eternal Friend's. 
 
 " Is that he picking up the fallen fan ? 
 
 My dear ! he 's sucn an awkward, ugly man ! 
 
 You must be certain, pet, to answer ' No.' 
 
 He 's not worth loving." — " And I love him so." 
 
 IV. Her Brother's. 
 
 " By Jove ! were I a girl — through horrd hap — 
 
 I would n't have a milk-and-water chap. 
 
 The man has not a single spark of ' go.* 
 
 He 's not worth loving." — " Yet I love him so." 
 
 V. Her Own. 
 
 " And were he everything to which I 've listened : 
 Though he were ugly, awkward (and he is n't). 
 Poor, low-born, and destitute of ' go,' 
 He is worth loving, for I love him so." 
 
 Chambers's yournal. 
 
 " YES." 
 
 They stood above the world. 
 
 In a world apart ; 
 And she drooped her happy eyes, 
 And stilled the throbbing pulses 
 
 Of her happy heart. 
 
EATHERLY. 
 
 LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 131 
 
 And the moonlight fell above her, 
 Her secret to discover ; 
 
 And the moonbeams kissed her hair, 
 As though no human lover 
 
 Had laid his kisses there. 
 
 " Look up, brown eyes," he said, 
 
 " And answer mine ; 
 Lift up those silken fringes 
 That hide a happy light 
 
 Almost divine.' 
 The jealous moonlight drifted 
 To the finger half uplifted, 
 
 Where shone the opal ring — 
 Where the colors danced and shifted 
 
 On the pretty, changeful thing. 
 
 Just the old, old story 
 
 Of light and shade. 
 Love like the opal tender, 
 Like it may be to vary — 
 
 May be to fade. 
 Just the old tender story, 
 Just a glimpse of morning glory 
 
 In an earthly Paradise, 
 With shadowy reflections 
 
 In a pair of sweet brown eyes. 
 
 Brown eyes a man might well 
 
 Be proud to win I 
 Open to hold his image, 
 Shut under silken lashes, 
 
 Only to shut him in. 
 O glad eyes, look together, 
 For life's dark, stormy weather 
 
 Grows to a fairer thing 
 When young eyes look upon it 
 
 Through a slender wedding ring. 
 
 R. D. Blackmore. 
 
 REUNITED LOVE. 
 
 " I DREAMED that we were lovers still, 
 
 As tender as we used to be 
 When I brought you the daffodil. 
 
 And you looked up and smiled at me." 
 
 " True sweethearts were we then, indeed, 
 When youth was budding into bloom; 
 
 And now the flowers are gone to seed, 
 And breezes have left no perfume." 
 
133 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 " Because you ever, ever will 
 Take such a crooked view of things, 
 
 Distorting this and that, until 
 Confusion ends in cavillings." 
 
 •* Because you never, never will 
 Perceive the force of what I say ; 
 
 As if I always reasoned ill — 
 Enough to take one 's breath away I " 
 
 " But what if riper love replace 
 The vision that enchanted me, 
 
 When all you did was perfect grace, 
 And all you said was melody ? " 
 
 " And what if loyal heart renew 
 The image never quite foregone, 
 
 Combining, as of yore, in you 
 A Samson and a Solomon ? " 
 
 *' Then to the breezes will I toss 
 The straws we split with temper's loss ; 
 Then seal upon your lips anew 
 The peace that gentle hearts ensue." 
 
 " Oh, welcome then, ye playful ways, 
 And sunshine of the early clays ; 
 And banish to the clouds above 
 Dull reason, that bedarkens love I " 
 
 Blackwood. 
 
 R. D. Bl\ckmore. 
 
 THE SEA'S LOVE. 
 
 li M: 
 
 Once in the days of old, 
 
 In the years of youth and mirth, 
 The Sea was a love ^'•ight and bold, 
 
 And he loved the golden Earth. 
 The Sun, in his royal raiment clad, 
 Loved her and found her r.weet, 
 But the Sea was content and glad 
 Only to be at her feet. 
 
 Ah ! that the bards should sing, 
 
 And wail for the golden years I 
 Love was and is but an idle thing, 
 'T is but a wind that veers. 
 
 And Earth in her beauty and pride 
 Held her lips to the wooing Sun ; 
 
 He said, " Thou art fair, O my bride," 
 And she sang, " I am thine alone." 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 133 
 
 The faithful Sea at her faithless feet 
 
 Rolled with a broken moan ; 
 "O Sun I" he cried, "but thy bride is sweet, 
 
 And I am alone, alone I " 
 Ah I that the bards, etc. 
 
 Oft wouM the Sun depart, 
 
 And his bride in her gloom made moan, 
 And the Sea would cry that her loving heart 
 
 Should be left to pine alone. 
 And his voice is strange and sad and sweet, 
 
 '* O love, not mine ! not mine ! 
 I am content to lie at thy feet. 
 And love thee in storm and shine." 
 Ah ! that the bards should sing, 
 
 And wail for the golden years I 
 Love was and is but an idle thing, 
 'T is but a wind that veers. 
 
 F. E. Weatherly. 
 
 INDECISION. 
 
 Bl\ckmore. 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 Dimpling red lips at me pouting, 
 Dimpling shoulders at me flouting ; 
 
 No, I don't I 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 Prisoned in those crystal eyes 
 Purity forever lies ; 
 
 Yes, I do I 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 Little wild and wilful fiction, 
 Teasing, torturing contradiction ; 
 
 No, I don't ! 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 With kind acts and -Jweet words she 
 Aids and comforts poverty ; 
 
 Yes, I do I 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 Quick she puts her cuirass on. 
 Stabs with laughter, stings with scorn ; 
 
 No, I don't ! 
 
 Do I love her ? 
 No ! Then to my arms she flies. 
 Filling me with glad surprise ; 
 
 Ah, yes, I do I 
 
134 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I- n ! 
 
 II 
 
 FRENCH WITH A MASTER. 
 
 A tmer, aimer ; c'est h vivre. 
 (" To love, to love ; this it is to live.") 
 
 Teach you French ? I will, my dear I 
 Sit and con your lesson here. 
 What did Adam say to Eve ? 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est d vivre. 
 
 Don't pronounce the last word long ; 
 Make it short to suit the song; 
 Rhyme it to your flowing sleeve, 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est h vivre. 
 
 Sleeve, I said, but what 's the harm 
 If I really meant your arm i 
 Mine shall twiiic it (by your leave), 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est <J vivre. 
 
 Learning French is full of slips ; 
 Do as I do with the lips ; 
 Here 's the right way, you perceive, 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est a vivre. 
 
 French is always spoken best 
 Breathing deeply from the chest ; 
 Darling, does your bosom heave ? 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est h vivre. 
 
 Now, my dainty little sprite, 
 Have I taught your lesson right ? 
 Then what pay shall I receive ? i 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est <i vivre. 
 
 Will you think me overbold 
 If I linger to be told 
 Whether you yourself believe 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est h vivre ? 
 
 Pretty pupil, when you say 
 All this French to me to-day, 
 Do you mean it, or deceive ? 
 Aime ', aimer ; c'est ^ vivre. 
 
 Tell me, may I understand, 
 When I press your little hand, 
 That our hearts together cleave ? 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est <i vivre. 
 
 Have you in your tresses room 
 For some orange-buds to bloom? 
 May I such a garland weave ? 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est <i vivre. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 1 35 
 
 Or, if I presume too much, 
 Teaching French by sense of touch, 
 Grant me pardon and reprieve I 
 Aimer, aimer ; c'est h vivre. 
 
 Sweetheart, no ! you cannot go ' 
 Let me sit and hold you so ; 
 Adam did the same to Eve, — 
 Aimer, aimer ; c^est d. vivre. 
 
 Theodore Tilton. 
 
 Note. — This dainty little love-roem was read by the Hon. William M. 
 Evarts to the jury in the celebrated Beecher-Tilton case. The poem and 
 its reading was received with the warmest applause, in which court, counsel, 
 and spectators joined. Even the weary jury could not forbear to smile. 
 
 AFEARED OF A GAL. 
 
 Oh, darn it all I — afeared of her, 
 
 And such a mite of a gal ; 
 Why, two of her size rolled into one 
 
 Won't ditto sister Sal I 
 Her voice is sweet as the whippoorwill's, 
 
 And the sunshine 's in her hair ; 
 Lut I 'd rather face a redskin's knife. 
 
 Or the grip of a grizzly bear. 
 Yet Sal says, " Why, she 's such a dear, 
 
 She 's just the one for you." 
 Oh, darn it all ! — afeared of a gal, 
 
 And me just six feet two I 
 
 Though she ain't any size, while I 'm 
 
 Considerable tall, 
 I 'm nowhere when she speaks to me, 
 
 Sht makes me feel so small. 
 My face grows red, my tongue gets hitched, 
 
 The cussed thing won't go ; 
 It riles me, 'cause it makes her think 
 
 I 'm most tarnation slow. 
 And though folks say she 's sweet on me, 
 
 I guess it can't be true. 
 Oh, darn it all ! — afeared of a gal, 
 
 And me just six feet two 1 
 
 My sakes I just s'pose if what the folks 
 
 Is saying should be so I 
 Go, Cousin Jane, and speak to her, 
 
 Find out and let me know 
 Tell her the gals should court the men, 
 
 For is n't this leap-year ? 
 That 's why I 'm kind of bashful like, 
 
 A waiting for her here. 
 
 1' 
 
!' 
 
 136 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And should she hear I 'm scared of her, 
 You Ml swear it can't be true. 
 
 Oh, darn it all I — afeared of a gal, 
 And me just six feet two I 
 
 A CONCEIT. 
 
 Oh, touch that rosebud ! it will bloom — 
 
 My lady fair ! 
 A passionate red in dim green gloom, 
 A joy, a splendor, a perfume 
 
 That sleeps in air. 
 
 You touched my heart ; it gave a thrill 
 
 Just like a rose 
 That opens at a lady's will ; 
 Its bloom is always yours, until ' 
 
 You bid it close. 
 
 Mortimer Collins. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 J 
 
 Draw down thy curtains close, O heart ! 
 Shut out the rays that, beaming bright, 
 
 Reveal my darkening sorrow ; 
 Our paths diverge, our paths now part, 
 And mine drifts out into the night — 
 
 A night without a morrow. 
 
 I, dreaming, waited long and loved, 
 Nor spoke one word of germed fire ; 
 
 Deep hidden, slept my passion ; 
 "While, side by side, we onward moved. 
 Calm friendship yours, mine, fond desire — 
 
 Love met with cold compassion. 
 
 Now, merry, merry clash the bells ; 
 Bring sheeny robes and ivy leaf ; 
 
 Bring crown of orange-flowers : 
 He in thy smile forever dwells. 
 While I drift on through clouds of grief. 
 
 Gold fringed with happy bygone hours. 
 
 Love, Love, farewell ; and ne'er again, 
 In all the drear and empty realm 
 
 That bounds my heart so weary, 
 Shall Love rebuild to him a fane; 
 And loveless, drifting without helm, 
 
 My life will float, so dreary. 
 
 Randolph. 
 
 |l v' 
 
 Si 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 137 
 
 THE MILLER AND THE MAID. 
 
 ;r Collins. 
 
 Across the heath and down the hill, 
 
 Aback of patient Dobbin, 
 The farmer's daughter rides to mill, 
 
 And mocks the thrush and robin. 
 
 For saddle she 's a sack of grain, 
 She sidewise sits and chirrups; 
 
 A finger in old Dobbin's mane 
 Is good as forty stirrups. 
 
 The miller comes — a merry blade ! — 
 And doffs his hat and greets her : 
 
 " What wish you here, my pretty maid .''" 
 " I 've brought a sack of wheat, sir." 
 
 " And have you gold to give for grist ? " 
 " Not I, we 're poor, alack I sir ; 
 
 But take your toll — a tenth, I wist — 
 From what I^ in my sack, sir." 
 
 He lifts her lightly from her seat. 
 And laughs — a merry miller I 
 
 " I cannot take my toll in wheat, 
 I must have gold or siller. 
 
 1 i 
 
 " But since you 've brought nor coin nor scrip," 
 
 He smiles and fondly eyes her — 
 *' I Ml ask no toll but from your lip — 
 
 One kiss I who '11 be the wiser .'' " 
 
 The maiden blushed and bowed her head, 
 
 And with her apron fingered. 
 And pouted out her lips of red 
 
 Where countless kisses lingered. 
 
 " A single kiss ? " (She smiled in glee, 
 As who would say, " I 've caught you.") 
 
 " My fattr^r said your toll would be 
 A tenth of what I brought you." 
 
 ANDOLPir. 
 
 The mill-stream shouted to the sands : 
 
 " He kissed the farmer's daughter ! " 
 But the grim old wheel stretched out its hands 
 
 And spanked the saucy water. 
 
 F. N. Scott. 
 

 1 f 
 
 .1: 6 
 
 
 'f. I 
 
 138 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A KISS IN THE RAIN. 
 
 One stormy morn I chanced to meet 
 
 A lassie in the town ; 
 Her locks were like the ripened wheat, 
 
 Her laughing eyes were brown. 
 I watched her, as she tripped along, 
 
 Till madness filled my brain, 
 And then — and then — I knew 't was wrong ■ 
 
 I kissed her in the rain. 
 
 With rain-drops shining on her cheek, 
 
 Like dew-drops on a rose, 
 The little lassie strove to speak, 
 
 My boldness to oppose ; 
 She strove in vain, and, quivering. 
 
 Her finger stole in mine ; „ 
 
 And then the birds began to sing. 
 
 The sun began to shine. 
 
 Oh, let the clouds grow dark above, 
 
 My heart is light below ; 
 'T is always summer when we love. 
 
 However winds may blow ; 
 And I 'm as proud as any prince, 
 
 All honors I disdain; 
 She says I am her rain-beau since 
 
 I kissed her in the rain. ■■ 
 
 
 ^: i 
 
 T£TE-A-T£TE. 
 
 A BIT of ground, a smell of earth, 
 A pleasant murmur in the trees, 
 
 The chirp of birds, an insect's hum, 
 And, kneeling on their chubby knees, 
 
 Two neighbors' children at their play ; 
 
 Who has not seen a hundred such.^ 
 A head of gold, a head of brown, 
 
 Bending together till they touch. 
 
 II. 
 
 A country school-house by the road, 
 A spicy scent of woods anear. 
 
 And all the air with summer sounds 
 Laden for who may care to hear. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 139 
 
 So do not two, a boy and girl, 
 
 Who stay, when all the rest are gone, 
 
 Solving a problem deeper far 
 Than one they seem intent upon. 
 
 Dear hearts, of course they do not know 
 How near their heads together lean ; 
 
 The bee that wanders through the room 
 Has hardly space to go between. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now darker is the head of brown, 
 The head of gold is brighter now, 
 
 And lines of deeper thought and life 
 Are written upon either brow. 
 
 The sense that thrills their being th jugh 
 With nameless longings vast and dim 
 
 Has found a voice, has found a name. 
 And where he goes she follows him. 
 
 Again their heads are bending near, 
 And bending down in silent awe 
 
 Above a morsel pure and sweet, 
 A miracle of love and law. 
 
 How often shall their heads be bowed 
 With joy or grief, with love and pride, 
 
 As waxeth strong that feeble life. 
 Or slowly ebbs its falling tide I 
 
 IV. 
 
 A seaward hill where lie the dead 
 In dreamless slumber deep and calm ; 
 
 Above their graves the roses bloom, 
 And all the air is full of balm. 
 
 They do not smell the roses sweet ; 
 
 They do not see the ships that go 
 Along the far horizon's edge ; 
 
 They do not feel the breezes blow. 
 
 Here loving hands have gently laid 
 The neighbors' children, girl and boy 
 
 And man and wife ; head close to head 
 They sleep, and know nor pain nor joy. 
 Christian Union. 
 
140 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 WEDDED. 
 
 Some quick and bitter words we said, 
 And then we parted. How the sun 
 
 Swam through the sullen mist of gray ! 
 
 A chill fell on the summer day, 
 
 Life's best and happiest hours were done ; 
 Friendship was dead. 
 
 How proud we went our separate ways, 
 
 And spake no word and made no moan I 
 She braided up her flowing hair, 
 That I had always called so fair. 
 Although she scorned my loving tone, 
 My word of praise. 
 
 And I ! I matched her scorn with scorn, 
 
 I hated her with all my heart, 
 Until — we chanced to meet one day ; 
 She turned her pretty head away ; 
 I saw two pretty tear-drops start, 
 
 Lo 1 love was born. 
 
 Som ond, repenting word I said, 
 She answered only with a sigh ; 
 
 But when I took her hand in mine 
 
 A radiant glory, half divine. 
 
 Flooded the earth and filled the sky — 
 Now wc are wed. 
 
 MUSIC IN THE SOUL. 
 
 Over my soul the great thoughts roll 
 
 Like the waves of a mighty sea ; 
 But clear through the rushing and surging there sounds 
 A wonderful music to me. 
 
 So sweet, so low, the harmonies flow ; 
 
 They rise and they fall, they come and they go ; 
 
 Wonderful, beautiful, soft, and slow. 
 
 Not here, not there, not in this calm air, 
 
 Nor born of the silvc sea ; 
 Immortal — beyond all the music of man— 
 It is love that is singing to me. 
 
 So sweet, so low, the harmonies flow ; 
 
 They rise and they fall, they come and they go ; 
 
 Wonderful, beautiful, soft, and slow. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 141 
 
 Not mine alone this melting tone — 
 The soul of it comes from thee — 
 For thou in thy bosom art singing of love, 
 And the music flows over to me. 
 So sweet, so low, the harmonies flow ; 
 They rise and they fall, they come and they go ; 
 Wonderful, beautiful, soft, and slow. 
 
 YES ? 
 
 Is it true, then, my girl } did you mean it — 
 
 The word spoken yesterday night ? 
 Does that hour seem so sweet now between it 
 
 And this has come day's sober light ? 
 Have you woke from a moment of rapture 
 
 To remember, regret, and repent. 
 And to hate, perchance, him who has trapped your 
 
 Unthinking consent ? 
 
 Who was he, last evening — this fellow 
 
 Whose audacity lent him a charm ? 
 Have you promised to wed Punchinello .'' 
 
 For life taken Figaro's arm ? 
 Will you have the Court fool of the papers, 
 
 The clown in the journalist's ring. 
 Who earns his scant bread by his capers, 
 
 To be your heart's king ? 
 
 A Modoc — a Malay — a Kaffir 
 
 (" Bohemian " puts it too mild) ; 
 By profession a poor paragrapher. 
 
 Light Laughter's unrecognized child ; 
 At the best but a Brummagem poet, 
 
 Inspired of tobacco and beer, 
 Altogether off color — I know it; 
 
 I 'm all that, my dear. 
 
 When we met quite by chance at the theatre, 
 
 And I saw you home under the moon, 
 I 'd no thouglit, love, that mischief would be at her 
 
 Tricks with my tongue quite so soon ; 
 That I should forget fate and fortune, 
 
 Make a difference 'twixt Sevres and delf ; 
 Tha? I 'd have the calm nerve to importune 
 
 You, sweet, for yourself. 
 
 It 's appalling, by Jove, tho audacious 
 
 Effrontery of that request I 
 But you — you grew suddenly gracious. 
 
 And hid your sweet face on my breast. 
 
142 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I 
 
 Fuck. 
 
 Why you did it I cannot conjecture ; 
 
 I surprised you, poor child, I dare say, 
 Or perhaps — does the moonlight affect your 
 
 Head often that way ? 
 
 It was glorious for me, but what pleasure 
 
 Could you find in such wooing as this ? 
 Were my arms not too ursine in pressure, 
 
 Was no flavor of clove in my kiss ? 
 Ah, your lips I profaned when I made with 
 
 Their dainty divinity free, — 
 Twin loves never meant to be played with 
 
 By fellows like me. 
 
 • • ( • • • 
 
 You 're released I With some wooer replace me 
 
 More worthy to be your life's light ; 
 From the tablet of memory efface me, 
 
 If you don't mean your " yes " of last night. 
 But unless you are anxious to see me a ^ 
 
 Wreck of the pipe and the cup 
 In my birthplace and graveyard, Bohemia — 
 
 Love, don't give me up. 
 
 H. C. BUNNER. 
 
 ;'<■ 
 W 
 
 YES! 
 
 " Is it true ? " — that 's the doubtful suggestion 
 
 I 've made to myself ever since ; 
 Did I misinterpret your question ? 
 
 Is joy, then, so hard to convince ? t 
 
 " Is it true ? " For my part, yes, completely, 
 
 And, if I may answer for you, 
 I '11 add it is wondrously, sweetly, 
 
 Entrancingly true. 
 
 Oh, dear, if I make a confession, 
 
 You '11 admit you have tempted it forth ; 
 If I own you have long had possession. 
 
 You 'It not deem the prize of less worth ? 
 If I say that a lifetime of pleasure 
 
 Last evening was brimmed in my cup, 
 And that you poured the liberal measure, 
 
 You won't give nte up ? 
 
 Ere ever I saw you I knew you, 
 
 I watched for your song and your jest, 
 And fancy in bright colors drew you 
 
 My hero, my Bayard, my best. 
 Nor was it mere fancy anointed 
 
 Yourself as my bosom's high priest ; 
 When we met I was not disappointed — 
 
 No, love, not the least. 
 
Z. BUNNER. 
 
 LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 1 43 
 
 Last night ! — and I'm owning already 
 
 The secrets of nearly a year. 
 They tell nie you 're fast, scarcely steady, 
 
 In short, a Bohemian, dear. 
 Well, those are not faults that need hurt you ; 
 
 They '11 do to pair off with my own — 
 You have all a Bohemian's virtue, 
 
 The rest I condone. 
 
 But I — how was I ever worthy 
 
 Of winning so precious a prize? 
 My thoughts, dear, are of the earth, earthy, 
 
 While yours soar away to the skies. 
 If all that you hint at were real, — 
 
 The jest, the despite, and the fleer, 
 The world could not dim my ideal, 
 
 Nor make you less dear. 
 
 So. darling, though you are above me 
 In intellect, knowledge, and worth. 
 Sufficient for me that you love me, — 
 
 I '11 follow you over the earth. 
 Sufficient for me that you deem me a 
 
 Soul not unworthy to sup 
 The joys of your wondrous Bohemia — 
 I can't give you up. 
 
 George H. Jessop. 
 Written for the San Francisco Bohemian Club, 
 as a reply to Bitnner's " Yes ?" 
 
 \' 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 I AM dying, Egypt, dving ! 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 
 And the dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast. 
 Let thine arm, O Queen, support me ; 
 
 Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear I 
 Hearken to the great heart secrets 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, must hear. 
 
 Though my scarred and veteran legions 
 
 Rear their eagles high no more, 
 And my wrecked and scattered galleys 
 
 Strew dark Actium's fatal shore ; 
 Though no glittering guards surround me, 
 
 Prompt to do their master's will, 
 I must perish like a Roman — 
 
 Die the great Triumvir still I 
 

 144 ^^^ HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 Let not Cjesar's servile minions 
 
 Mock the lion thus laid low; 
 'Twas no foeman's arm that felled him ; 
 
 'Twas his own that dealt the blow — 
 His, who, pillowed on thy bosom, 
 
 Turned aside from glory's ray — 
 His, who, drunk with thy caresses, 
 
 Madly threw a world away. 
 
 Should the base plebeian rabble 
 
 Dare assail my fame in Rome, 
 Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 Weeps within her widowed home, 
 Seek her ! Say the gods have told me — 
 
 Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
 That her blood with mine commingled 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of kings ! 
 
 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! 
 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! * 
 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 
 With the splendors of thy smile. 
 Give to Caesar crowns and arches, 
 
 Let his brow the laurel twine, 
 I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 
 
 Triumphing in love like thine. 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying I 
 
 Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry I 
 They are coming ! Quick, my falchion ! 
 
 Let me front them ere I die. 
 Ah ! no more amid the battle 
 
 Shall my heart exulting swell ; 
 Tsis and Osiris guard thee — 
 
 Cleopatra — Rome — farewell. 
 
 Gen. William H. Lytle. 
 
 CLEOPATRA TO ANTONY. 
 
 Spread a feast with choicest viands — 
 
 Friends, 't will be my very last ; 
 Bring the rarest flowers to grace it — 
 
 Haste, my sands of life flow fast ; 
 Place an asp beneath the lotus 
 
 That shall light me to the grave 
 With its starry petals' splendor; 
 
 Weep not, let your hearts be brave. 
 
 Speed, Octavia, with thy minions — 
 Fire thy heart with deadly hate ! 
 
 Thou wilt miss the royal victim — 
 Cleopatra rules her fate I 
 
iM H. Lytle. 
 
 LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 145 
 
 She defies Rome's conquering legions ! 
 
 Let them triiim|)h in her fall ! 
 What is earthly pomp or greatness ? — 
 
 Love, thy love outweighs it all ! 
 
 Thrones and sceptres are but trifles 
 
 To my spirit's yearning pain ; 
 What were fortune's gifts without thee 
 
 I would lose the world to gain ? 
 Let no base heart tell our story ; 
 
 Ages, speak, when time unurns 
 These dull ashes, say to Ages, 
 
 Soul to soul their love still burns. 
 
 Fatal asp, thy sleep 's not endless, 
 
 That the morrow's dawn will prove ; 
 I shall reign in lands elysian. 
 
 Antony's proud Queen of Love ! 
 Isis and Osiris, hear me ! 
 
 Hear me, gods of boundless power 1 
 Ye have tasted deathless passion ! 
 
 Ye will guide me to his bower ! 
 
 Pardon, mighty ones, the error 
 
 If Octavia I have wronged. 
 Judged by higher laws supernal ; 
 
 Ah I how earthly passions thronged. 
 Overpowering heart and reason. 
 
 Nature, answering Nature's call, 
 Rushed as cloud responsive rushes 
 
 On to cloud, to meet and — fall. 
 
 Antony, my love, I 'm dying ! 
 
 Curdles fast life's crimson tide. 
 But no dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Fall between us to divide. 
 Hark ! the Stygian waters swelling, 
 
 Call me, love, with thee to rest, — 
 Death I fear not since thou braved it, 
 
 Pillowed on my aching breast. 
 
 Strange emotions fdl my bosom 
 
 As I near the vast unknown ; 
 Yet my heart still throbs in dying, 
 
 Antony, for thee alone. 
 Oh ! " I feel immortal longings," — 
 
 I can brave stern Pluto's frown, — 
 Robe me in my rej il garments, 
 
 Deck with jewels., sceptre, crown. 
 
 Antony I I 'm coming I coming I 
 
 Open, open wide thine arms I 
 Ah ! the blissful hope of union 
 
 Robs the grave of its alarms. 
 
 10 
 
,.l i.' 
 
 ' V I 
 
 # 
 
 146 
 
 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Sec ! the glorious heroes beckon 
 
 O'er the Stygian water's swell. 
 I shall have immortal crowning ! 
 
 Egypt — dear old Nile ! — farewell. 
 
 Mrs. Sarah D. Clarke. 
 
 CLEOPATRA'S SOLILOQUY. 
 
 What care I for the tempest ? What care I for the rain } 
 If it beat upon my bosom, would it cool its burning pain, — 
 This pain that ne'er has left me since on his heart I lay, 
 And sobbed my grief at parting as I 'd sob my soul away } 
 
 Antony I Antony ! Antony I when in thy circling arms 
 Shall I sacrifice to Eros my glorious woman's charms, 
 And burn life's sweetest incense before his sacred shrine, 
 With the living fire that flashes from thine eyes into mine ? 
 Oh, when shall I feel thy kisses rain down upon my face, 
 As a queen of love and beauty I lie in thine embrace, 
 Melting, melting, melting, as a woman only can 
 
 When she 's a willing captive in the conquering arms of man, , 
 As he towers a god above her — and to yield is not defeat, j 
 For love can own no victor if love with love shall meet I 
 
 1 still have regal splendor, I still have queenly power. 
 And, more than all, unfaded is woman's glorious dower 
 IJut what care I for pleasure ? what 's beauty to me now, 
 Since Love no longer places his crown ujjon my brow ? 
 
 I have tasted its elixir, its fire has through me flashed. 
 
 But when the wine glowed brightest, from my eager lips 't was 
 
 dashed. 
 And I would give all Egypt but once to feel the bliss 
 Which thrills through all my being whene'er I meet his kiss. 
 The tempest wildly rages, my hair is wet with rain. 
 But it does not still my longnig or cool my burning pain. 
 P'or Nature's storms are nothing to the raging of my soul 
 When it burns with jealous frenzy beyond a queen's control. 
 I fear not pale Octavia, that haughty Roman dame, 
 My lion of the desert, my Antony, can tame. 
 I fear no Persian beauty, I fear no Grecian maid ; 
 The world holds not the woman of whom I am afraid. 
 But I 'm jealous of the rapture I tasted in his kiss. 
 And I would not that another should share with me that bliss. 
 No joy would I deny him, let him cull it where he will, 
 So mistress of his bosom is Cleopatra still ; 
 So that he feels forever, when he Love's nectar sips, 
 'Twas sweeter, sweeter, sweeter when tasted on my lips ; 
 So that all other kisses, since he has drawn in mine. 
 Shall be unto my loved as " water after wine." 
 Awhile let Caesar fancy Octavia's pallid charms 
 Can hold Rome's proudest consul a captive from these arms. 
 Her cold embrace but brightens the memory of mine, 
 And for my warm caresses he in her arms shall pine. 
 
LOVE, SENT/.ULS'T, AND FRIENDSHIP. 147 
 
 'Twas not for love he sought her, but for her princely dower; 
 She brought him Ctcsar's frienclsiiii), siic brought him kingly 
 
 power. 
 I should have bid him take her, had he my counsel sought, — 
 I 've but to smile upon hnn, and all her charms are nought ; 
 For I would scorn to hold him by but a single hair 
 Save his own longing for me when I 'm no longer there ; 
 And I will show you, Roman, that for one kiss from me 
 Wife, fame, and even honor to him shall nothing be ! 
 
 Throw wide the window, Isis, fling perfumes o'er me now. 
 
 And bind the lotus-blossoms again upon my brow. 
 
 The rain has ceased its weeping, the driving storm is past. 
 
 And calm are Nature's pulses that lately beat so fast. 
 
 Gone is my jealous frenzy, and Eros reigns serene, 
 
 The only god e'er worshiiMJed by Egyju's haughty queen. 
 
 With Antony; my loved, I II kneel before his shrine 
 
 Till the loves of Mars and Venus are nought to his and mine ; 
 
 And down through coming ages, in every land and tongue, 
 
 With them shall Cleopatra and Antony be sung. 
 
 lUirn sandal-wood and cassia; let the vapor round me wreathe, 
 
 And mingle with the Incense the lotus-blossoms breathe; 
 
 Let India's spicy odors and Persia's perfumes rare 
 
 lie wafted on the pinions of Egypt's fragrant air. 
 
 With the singing of the night breeze, the river's rippling flow, 
 
 Let me hear the notes of music in cadence soft and low. 
 
 Draw round my couch its curtains; I 'd bathe my soul in sleep; 
 
 I feel its gentle lane )r upon me slowly creep. 
 
 Oh, let me cheat my senses with dreams of future bliss, 
 
 In fancy feel his presence, in fancy taste his kiss, 
 
 In fancy nestle closely against his throbbing heart, 
 
 And throw my arms around him, no more, no more to part. 
 
 Hush ! hush ! his spirit's pinions are rustling in my ears ; 
 
 He comes upon the tempest to calm my jealous fears ; 
 
 He comes upon the tempest in answer to my call, — 
 
 Wife, fanie, and even honor, for me he leaves them all ; 
 
 And royally I '11 welcome my lover to my side. 
 
 I have won him, I have won him from Caesar and his bride. 
 
 T/te Galaxy. Mary Bayard Clark. 
 
 CLEOPATRA'S DREAM. 
 
 Lo, by Nilus' languid waters 
 
 Facles the dreamy summer day, 
 Where, on couch of gold and crimson, 
 
 Egypt's royal daughter lay, — 
 Dreaming lay, while palm and pillar 
 
 Cast their lengthening shadows now. 
 And the lotus-laden zephyrs 
 
 Lightly kissed her queenly brow. 
 
148 
 
 •N 
 
 f 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Soft the evening steals upon her, 
 
 As behind the curtained west 
 Sinks the day-god in his splendor — 
 
 Folds his wooing arms to rest. 
 Drowsy shades of dusky Egypt 
 
 Homeward, slow, their burdens bear, 
 While the boatman's lazy challenge 
 
 Falls upon the quivering air. 
 
 Dreams she of her Roman lover, 
 
 He who cast a crown away. 
 Country, kindred, fame, and honor, 
 
 In her captive arms to lay ? 
 Ay I .'f Antony her hero, 
 
 Sharer of her heart and throne. 
 He whose ships, now homeward sailing, 
 
 Bear her all of love alone. 
 
 Starts she in her sleeping gloiy. 
 
 And her brown arms, jewelled, bare, 
 Round and rich in queenly beauty. 
 
 Wildly cleave the slumberous air. 
 Beads of perspiration gather 
 
 On her matchless woman's brow. 
 While her parted lips in anguish 
 
 Tell of heart-pangs none m ay know. 
 
 Sure some vision, dire and dreadful, 
 
 Palls upon her eyes and brain, 
 Piercing to her being's centre 
 
 With a fiery shaft of pain. 
 Like a sea her full-orbed bosom 
 
 Swells and falls with pent-up ire ; 
 Then her spirit breaks its thraldom, 
 
 And she shrieks in wild despair ; — 
 
 "Ch irmian, quick, unloose my girdle. 
 
 Give me breath! I faint I I die I 
 Ho ! slaves, bring my royal galley, 
 
 Let us hence to Egypt fly. 
 Oh for vengeance on the traitor, 
 
 And upon his Roman bride ! 
 Let him never dare — ah, Charmian, 
 
 Stand you closely by my side. 
 
 " Do I dream ? Is this my palace — 
 
 Yon my sweetly flowing Nile ? 
 Ah, I see — O great Osins, 
 
 How I thank thee for thy smile I 
 Oh, I *ve had such fearful vision — 
 
 He, my Antony, untrue ; 
 And my heart was nigh to bursting 
 
 With its fearful weight of woe. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 149 
 
 " But 't is over; yet I tremble — 
 
 On what brink of fate I stand ; 
 What prophetic bird of evil 
 
 Hovers o'er this sacred land ! 
 What if true should come my dreaming, 
 
 And no more my love return 1 
 Ah, the thought my heart's blood freezes, 
 
 While my brain with madness burns." 
 
 Then she listened, gazing outward 
 
 Toward a dim futurity — 
 And the Nile forever onward 
 
 Bears its burdens to the sea ; 
 And she catches from its whispers — 
 
 Echoing whispers in her soul — 
 That her reign of love is ended. 
 
 And her life is near its goal. 
 
 J. J. Owens. 
 
 STORY OF THE GATE. 
 
 Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed, 
 Under the maple, it was hinged — 
 
 The little wooden gate ; 
 'Twas there within ihe quiet gloam. 
 When I had strolled with Nelly home, 
 
 I used to pause and wait 
 
 Before I said to her good-night, 
 Yet loath to leave the winsome sprite 
 
 Within the garden's pale ; 
 And there, the gate between us two. 
 We 'd linger as all lovers do, 
 
 And lean upon the rail. 
 
 And face to face, eyes close to eyes. 
 Hands meeting hands in fc'gned surprise, 
 
 After a stealthy quest, — 
 So close I 'd bend, ere she 'd retreat. 
 That I *d grow drunken from the sweet 
 
 Tuberose upon her breast. 
 
 W^e 'd talk — in fitful style, I ween — 
 With many a meaning glance between 
 
 The tender words and low; 
 W^e 'd whisper some dear, sweet conceit, 
 Some idle gossip we 'd repeat. 
 
 And then I 'd move to go. 
 
I go THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 " Good-night," I 'd say ; " good-night — good-by ! " 
 " Good-night " — from her with half a sigh — 
 
 " Good-night I " " Good-night 1 " And then — 
 And then I do tioi go, but stand, 
 Again lean on the railing, and — 
 
 Begin it all again. 
 
 Ah I that was many a day ago — 
 That pleasant summer-time — although 
 
 The gate is standing yet ; 
 A little cranky, it may be, 
 A little weather-worn — like me — 
 
 Who never can forget 
 
 The happy — " End " ? My cynic friend, 
 Pray save your sneers — there was no " end." 
 
 Watch yonder chubby thing I 
 That is our youngest, hers and mine ; 
 See how he climbs, his legs to twine 
 
 About the gate and swing. 
 
 Scribner's Magazine. T. H. ROBERISON. 
 
 IN THE HAMMOCK. 
 
 The lazy, languid breezes sweep 
 
 Across a fluttered crowd of leaves ; 
 The shadows fall so dim, so deep, 
 Ah, love, 't is good to dream and sleep 
 Where nothing jars or nothing grieves. 
 
 My love she lies at languid ease 
 
 Across her silken hammock's length ; 
 Her stray curls flutter in the breeze 
 That moves amidst the sunlit trees, 
 
 And stirs their gold with mimic strength. 
 
 So calm, so still, the drowsy noon j 
 So sweet, so fair, the golden day ; 
 
 Too sweet that it should turn so soon 
 
 From set of sun to rising moon, 
 And fade and pass away. 
 
 Her eyes are full of happy dreams, 
 Ancl languid with unuttered bliss ; 
 
 The calm of unstirred mountain streams, 
 
 The light of unforgotten scenes. 
 Live in her thoughts of that or this. 
 
 A year, a month, a week, a day; 
 
 The meaning of some look or word, 
 Swift, sudden as a sunbeam's ray, — 
 Do these across her memory stray 
 
 As if again she looked or heard ? 
 
 \. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 151 
 
 It may be so. I would it were, 
 
 For I who love and she who dreams ; 
 
 The world to me is only her. 
 
 Can my heart's cry to pity stir 
 Her heart that silent seems ? 
 
 O deep eyes, lose your gentle calm ; 
 
 O fair cheek, lose your tint of rose ; 
 O heart, beat swift with love's alarm, 
 That I may win with chain and charm, 
 
 And hold you till life close. 
 
 Lo, sweet, I stand, and gaze and faint 
 
 Beneath the wonder of your eyes, 
 Whose beauty I can praise and paint 
 Till words and fancy lose restraint, 
 
 And fear forgotten dies. 
 Loudon Society. 
 
 . Robertson. 
 
 THE RING'S MOTTO. 
 
 A LOVER gave the wedding ring 
 
 Into the goldsmith's hand ; 
 " Grave me," he said, " a tender thought 
 Within the golden band." 
 The goldsmith graved 
 With careful art, 
 " Till death us part." 
 
 The wedding bell rang gladly out ; 
 
 The husband said, " O wife, 
 Together we shall share the grief. 
 The happiness of life. 
 I give to thee 
 My hand, my heart, 
 Till death us part." 
 
 'Twas she that lifted now his hand, 
 
 (O love, that this should be !) 
 Then on it placed the golden band, 
 And whispered tenderly : 
 " Till death us join, 
 Lo, thou art mine, 
 And I am thine. 
 
 " And when death joins, we nevermore 
 
 Shall know an aching heart, 
 The bridal of that better love 
 Death has no power to part. 
 That troth will be, 
 For thee and me. 
 Eternity." 
 
I 
 
 h 
 
 15? 
 
 I. r 
 
 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 So up the hill and clown the hill, 
 Through fifty changing years, 
 They shared each other's happiness, 
 They dried each other's tears. 
 Alas, alas, 
 
 That death's cold dart 
 Such love can part I 
 
 But one sad day — she stood alone 
 
 Beside his narrow bed ; 
 She drew the ring from off her hand. 
 And to the goldsmith said : 
 " O man who graved 
 With careful art, 
 ' Till death us part 
 
 " Now grave four other words for me, ■ 
 
 ' Till death us join.' " He took 
 The precious golden band once more, 
 With solemn, wistful look. 
 And wrought with care, 
 For love, not coin, 
 " Till death us join." 
 
 ASKING. 
 
 He stole from my bodice a rose. 
 My cheek was its color the while ; 
 
 But, ah, the sly rogue ! he well knows. 
 Had he asked it, I must have said no. 
 
 He snatched from my lips a soft kiss ; 
 
 I tried at a frown — 't was a smile ; 
 For, ah, the sly rogue I he knows this : 
 
 Had he asked it, I must have said no. 
 
 That " asking " in love 's a mistake. 
 It puts one in mind to refuse ; 
 
 'T is best not to ask, but to take; 
 For it saves one the need to say no. 
 
 Yet, stay — this is folly I 've said ; 
 
 Some things should be asked if desired ; 
 My rogue hopes my promise to wed ; 
 
 When he asks me, I will not say no. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 153 
 
 AN OLD RHYME. 
 
 " I DARE not ask a kisse, 
 
 I dare not beg a smile, 
 Lest having that or this, 
 
 I might grow proud the while. 
 No, no, the utmost share 
 
 Of my desire shall be 
 Only to kisse the aire 
 
 That lately kissed thee." 
 
 THE FRIVOLOUS GIRL. 
 
 Her eyes were bright and merry, 
 She danced in the mazy whirl ; 
 
 She took the world in its sunshine, 
 For she was a frivolous girl. 
 
 She dressed like a royal princess, 
 
 She wore her hair ni a curl ; 
 The gossips said, " What a pity 
 
 That she 's such a frivolous girl I " 
 
 (Twenty years later.) 
 
 She 's a wife, a mother, a woman. 
 Grand, noble, and pure as a pearl ; 
 
 While the gossips say, " Would you think :t. 
 Of only a frivolous girl ? " 
 
 SteubenvilU Herald. 
 
 WHERE IGNORANCE IS BLISS. 
 
 Is love contagious ? — I don't know ; 
 But this I am prepared to say, 
 That I have felt for many a day 
 A great desire to make it so. 
 
 Does she vouchsafe a thought of me ? 
 Sometimes I think she does ; and then 
 I 'm forced to grope in doubt ^gain. 
 Which seems my normal state xo be. 
 
f i"' 
 
 154 
 
 THE HUMBLER tOETS. 
 
 Why don't I ask, and asking know ? 
 I grant perhaps it might be wise; 
 But when I look into her eyes, 
 And hear her voice which thrills me so, 
 
 I think that on the whole I won't ; 
 I 'd rather doubt than know she don't. 
 
 Scribnet's Magazine. 
 
 AN EXPLANATION. 
 
 Her lips were so near 
 
 That — what else could I do? 
 
 You '11 be angry, I fear, 
 
 But her lips were so near — 
 
 Well, I can't make it clear, 
 
 Or explain it to you, \j • 
 
 But — her lips were so near 
 
 That — what else could I do? 
 
 Walter Learned. 
 
 THLN'E EYES. 
 
 Thou hast diamonds and pearls of rare beauty, 
 Thou hast all that the heart can admire ; 
 Thine eyes shine far brighter than jewels — 
 What more can my darling desire ? 
 
 On thine eyes, bright as stars of the evening, 
 Have I written and tuned to my lyre 
 Whole volumes of rapturous sonnets — 
 What more can my darling desire ? 
 
 With thine eyes of unquenchable splendor 
 Hast thou kindled my heart into fire. 
 And forced me to kneel as thy suitor — 
 What more can my darling desire ? 
 
 John F. Ballantyne. 
 {From the German of Heine.) 
 
 HYMN TO SANTA RITA. 
 
 The Patron Saint of the Impossible. 
 
 Have you heard of Santa Rita ? 
 
 Patron of the hopeless, she ; 
 Fleeting dreams of pleasure fleeter 
 
 Under her protection be ; 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 1 55 
 
 Idle wish and aspiration, 
 
 Fruitless hope and gray despair, 
 Crave alike her mediation, — 
 
 Santa Rita I hear my prayer 
 
 Long have I, with ardor leal, 
 
 Sought the maiden of my dreams, 
 Chasing still my bright ideal. 
 
 Like a marsh-light's taunting gleams. 
 Candles sweet and incense sweeter 
 
 Do I vow thee, week by week, — 
 Give me, lovely Santa Rita I 
 
 The ideal girl I seek. 
 
 ;r Learned. 
 
 Rich fair eyes, like summer twilight 
 
 Ere the stars glint through the blue, 
 Beaming with a soft and shy light. 
 
 Hiding summer lightnings too ; 
 Rich brown hair in wayward cluster, 
 
 Rippling down in heavy fold, 
 Giving in the sunset's lustre 
 
 Here and there a gleam of gold ; 
 
 Fair, sweet face, whose quick expression 
 
 Mirrors well the thoughts that flit, — 
 Soft now with love's shy confession, 
 
 Brightened now by fire of wit ; 
 Fair, sweet nature, were I bolder 
 
 To dispel the doubts that spring, 
 I would touch her angel shoulder, 
 
 Just to feel the budding wing ! 
 
 Silver voice to charm and fill me 
 
 With an ecstasy of sound ; 
 Springing, bi oyant step to thrill me 
 
 In the waltz's dazing round ; 
 Mind as bright as rainbow's prism. 
 
 Wit as keen as archer's dart. 
 And, to work the mechanism, 
 
 Just a little mite of heart. 
 
 This my longing, Santa Rita I 
 
 This the girl for whom I wait. 
 Tell me, tell me, shall I meet her 
 
 Ere I die disconsolate ? 
 Are my dreams but idle fancy ? 
 
 Lives there such a maiden rare ? 
 I invoke thy necromancy, — 
 
 Santa Rita I hear my prayer I 
 
 Alvey a. AdI'E. 
 
156 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 \ t 
 
 WE LOVE BUT FEW. 
 
 Oh, yes, we mean all kind words that we say 
 
 To old friends and to new; 
 Yet doth this truth grow clearer day by day : 
 
 We love but few. 
 
 We love ! we love I What easy words to say, 
 
 And sweet to hear, 
 When sunrise splendor brightens all the way. 
 
 And, far and near, 
 
 Are breath of flowers and carolling of birds, 
 
 And bells that chime ; 
 Our hearts are light : we do not weigh our words 
 
 At morning time I 
 
 But when the matin music all is hushed, 
 
 And life's great load 
 Doth weigh us down, and thick with dust 
 
 Doth grow the road, 
 
 Then do we say less often that we love. 
 
 The words have grown ! 
 With pleading eyes we look to Christ above, 
 
 And clasp our own. 
 
 Their lives are bound to ours by mighty bands 
 
 No mortal strait, 
 Nor Death himself, with his prevailing hands. 
 
 Can separate. 
 
 The world is wide, and many friends are dear, 
 
 And friendships true ; 
 Yet do these words read plainer, year by year: 
 
 We love but few. 
 
 A SONG FOR THE GIRL I LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 A SONG for the girl I love — 
 
 God love her I 
 A song for the eyes that tender shine, 
 And the fragant mouth that melts on mine, 
 The shimmering tressts uncontrolled 
 That clasp her neck with tendrils of gold ; 
 And the blossom mouth and the dainty chin. 
 And the little dimples out and in — 
 The girl 1 love — 
 God love her I 
 
 ■;; 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 157 
 
 II. 
 
 A song for the girl I loved — 
 
 God loved her! 
 A song for the eyes of faded light, 
 And the cheek whose red rose waned to white, 
 And the quiet brow, with its shadow and gleam, 
 And the ciark lashes drooped in a long, deep dream, 
 And the small hands crossed for their churchyard rc<st, 
 And the lilies dead on her sweet dead breast. 
 The girl I loved — 
 
 God loved her I 
 
 UNDOWERED. 
 
 Thou hast not gold ? Why, this is gold 
 All clustering round thy forehead white ; 
 
 And were it weighed, and were it told, 
 I could not say its worth to-night I 
 
 Thou hast not wit ? Why, what is this 
 Wherewith thou capturest many a wight, 
 
 Who doth forget a tongue is his. 
 As I well-nigh forgot to-night.^ 
 
 Nor station ? Well, ah, well ! I own 
 Thou hast no pla'.:e assured thee quite ; 
 
 So now I raise thee to a throne ; 
 Begin thy reign, my Queen, to-night. 
 
 Scrtbner's Magazine. Harriet McEvven Kimball. 
 
 THE SILENCE OF LOVE. 
 
 I HOLD that we are wrong to seek 
 To put in words our deepest thought ; 
 The purer things by Nature taught 
 
 Are turned to coarser when we speak. 
 
 The flower whose perfume charms the sense 
 Grows hard and common to the touch, 
 And love that 's wordy overmuch 
 
 Is marred by its experience ; 
 
 For love, like sympathy, hath bands 
 More strong \n silence than in speech. 
 And hearts speak loudest, each to each, 
 
 Through meeting lips and clasp of hands. 
 
 Nor could I hope for fitting word 
 To form in speech the thoughts that start ; 
 The inner core of every heart 
 
 Hath yearnings that are never heard. 
 
I si 
 
 ^ ': 1 
 
 ■4 
 
 III 
 
 . I 
 ,i 
 
 li I! 
 
 158 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 They are too subtile, and transcend 
 
 The power of words to speak them right ; 
 
 We therefore shut them out of sight, 
 To burn in silence to the end. 
 Yet even as the Magi held 
 
 Their sun as sacred, so I hold 
 
 My love is holy, sacred-souled, 
 And pure as sacred fire of eld. 
 Nor dare I stain with woid or pen 
 
 This inner purer love to thee 
 
 Whose higher nature raiseth me 
 Beyond the common line of men. 
 
 Hamilton Drummond. 
 
 AH I ME. 
 
 The fairest flower upon the vine — 
 
 So far above my reach it grows 
 I ne'er can hope to make it mine — 
 
 Smiles in the sun, — a peerless rose. 
 The wind is whispering soft and low 
 
 Fond praises of its loveliness ; 
 
 Its sweetness I can only guess, 
 But never know. 
 
 On beauteous lips — as far away 
 
 As is the rose — a kiss there lies. 
 And on those lips that kiss must stay. 
 
 Though I may look with longing eyes ; 
 A cruel fate hath willed it so, 
 
 Not mine that crimson mouth to press ; 
 
 Its sweetness I can only guess, 
 V>\\t never know. 
 
 JUBILATE. 
 
 Beyond the light-house, standing sentinel 
 Just where the line of earth and ocean meet, 
 
 The foam-crowned rollers slowly rose and fell 
 Upon the low reef with a murmurous beat. 
 
 And sweeping far away, like rippled gold, 
 Lay the wide bosom of the restless sea, 
 
 Where a brave ship down to the sky-line rolled, 
 Bearing afar the one most dear to me. 
 
 Slowly the broad moon dipped into the west, 
 And for a moment hung the waves above ; 
 
 While borne along the ocean's lighted breast 
 
 The stout ship swiftly 'fore the strong wind drove. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 159 
 
 Right in the sinking spiiere she sailed at last, 
 Her tall sails bearing her right bravely on ; 
 
 Out flashed a radiance, gilding hull and mast. 
 And in a moment ship and moon were gone. 
 
 And seeing this, my heart grew glad and light. 
 
 Though storms may roar along the restless main, 
 I know there is a limit to their might. 
 
 And I shall have my sweetheart's kiss again. 
 
 Drummond. 
 
 MY JOSIAR. 
 
 Things has come to a pretty pass 
 
 The whole wide country over, 
 When every married woman has 
 
 To have a friend or lover ; 
 It ain't the way that I was raised, 
 
 And I hain't no desire 
 To have some feller pokin' round 
 
 Instead of my Josiar. 
 
 I never kin forget the day 
 
 That we went out a walkin', 
 An' sot down on the river-bank, 
 
 An' kep' on hours a talkin'; 
 He twisted up my apron-string 
 
 An' folded it together, 
 An' said he thought for harvest time 
 
 'T was cur'us kind o' weather. 
 
 The sun went down as we sot there — 
 
 Josiar seemed uneasy ; 
 An' mother she began to call : 
 
 " Looweezy, oh, I^ooweezy I " 
 An' then Josiar spoke right up, 
 
 As I was just a startin'. 
 An' said, " Looweezy! what's the use 
 
 Of us two ever partin' .'' " 
 
 It kind o' took me by surprise. 
 
 An' yet I knew 't was comin' ; 
 I 'd heard it all the summer long 
 
 In every wild bee's hummin' ; 
 I 'd studied out the way I 'd act, — 
 
 But law ! I could n't' do it ; 
 I meant to hide my love from him, 
 
 But seems as If he knew it. 
 An' lookin' down into my eyes 
 
 He must have seen the fire, — 
 An' ever since that hour I 've loved 
 
 An' worshipped my Josiar. 
 
s '^ 
 
 i): l 
 
 1 60 
 
 :A 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I can't tell what the women mean 
 
 Who let men fool around 'em, 
 Believin* all the nonsense that 
 
 They only say to sound 'em ; 
 I know, for one, I 've never seen 
 
 The man that I *d admire 
 To have a hangin' after me 
 
 Instead of my Josiar. 
 
 THE CONSTANT FRIEND. 
 
 Human hopes and human creeds 
 Have their root in human needs. 
 And I would not wish to strip 
 From that washerwoman's lip 
 Any song that she may sing. 
 Any hope that she can bring ; 
 For the woman has a friend 
 That will keep her to the end. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 Friendship needs no studied phrases, 
 Polished face, or winning wiles ; 
 
 Friendship deals no lavish praises. 
 Friendship dons no surface smiles. 
 
 Friendship follovirs Nature's diction, 
 Shuns the blandishments of Art, 
 
 Boldly severs truth from fiction. 
 Speaks the language of the heart. 
 
 Friendship favors no condition, 
 Scorns a narrow-minded creed. 
 
 Lovingly fulfils its mission, 
 Be it word or be it deed. 
 
 Friendship cheers the faint and weary, 
 Makes the timid spirit brave. 
 
 Warns the erring, lights the dreary. 
 Smooths the passage to the grave. 
 
 Friendship — pure, unselfish friendship, 
 All through life's allotted span. 
 
 Nurtures, strengthens, widens, lengthens 
 Man's affinity with man. 
 
LOVE, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. l6l 
 
 FRIENDSHIP, LOVE, AND TRUTH. 
 
 FRiENnsHiP doth bind, with pleasant tics, 
 The heart of man to man, and age 
 
 But strengthens it — it never dies 
 Till finished is life's final page. 
 
 Love is the sacred link which binds 
 
 Hearts joined by friendship firmer still ; 
 
 Who once has felt it, in it finds 
 Joys which his soul with pleasure fill. 
 
 Truth only can complete the chain. 
 Its links enduring strength can give ; 
 
 With this unbroken 't will remain 
 While e'er the human soul shall live. 
 
 DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
 
 My friend, my chum, my trusty crony ! 
 
 We are clcsigned, it seems to me, 
 To be two happy lazzaroni. 
 On sunshine fed, and macaroni, 
 
 Far off by some Sicilian sea. 
 
 From dawn to eve in the happy land, 
 
 No duty on us but to lie — 
 Straw-hatted on the shining sand. 
 With bronzing chest and arm and hand — 
 
 Beneath the blue Italian sky. 
 
 There, with the mountains idly glassing 
 Their purple splendors in the sea — 
 To watch the white-winged vessels passing 
 (Fortunes for busier fools amassing). 
 This were a heaven to you and me. 
 
 Our meerschaums coloring cloudy brown, 
 
 Two young girls coloring with a blush. 
 The blue waves with a silver crown, 
 The mountain shadows dropping down, 
 And all the air in perfect hush. 
 
 Thus should we lie in the happy land. 
 
 Nor fame, nor power, nor fortune miss; 
 Straw-hatted on the shining sand, 
 With bronzing chest and arms and hand, — 
 Two loafers couched in perfect bliss. 
 II 
 
l62 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 % », 
 
 A BIRTHDAY GREETING. 
 
 I 
 
 What shall I wish thee for the coming year ? 
 Twelve months of dream-like ease ? no care ? no pain ? 
 Bright spring, calm summer, autumn without rain 
 Of bitter tears ? Wouldst have it thus, my friend ? 
 What lesson, then, were learnt at the year s end ? 
 
 What shall I wish thee, then ? God knoweth well 
 If I could have my way no shade of woe 
 Should ever dim thy sunshine ; but I know 
 Strong courage is not learnt in happy sleep. 
 Nor patience sweet by eyes that never weep. 
 
 Ah, would my wishes were of more avail 
 To keep fron. thee the many jars of life I 
 Still let me wish thee courage for the strife, — 
 The happiness that comes of work well done, — 
 And, afterwards, the peace of victory won I 
 
 M. E. F. 
 
 OLD FRIENDS. 
 
 -i !*l 
 
 We just shake hands at meeting 
 
 With many that come nigh. 
 We nod the head in greeting 
 
 To many that go by. 
 But we welcome through the gateway 
 
 Our few old friends and true ; 
 Then hearts leap up and straightway 
 
 There 's open house for you, 
 Old friends, 
 Wide-open house for you. 
 
 The surface will be sparkling. 
 
 Let but a sunbeam shine. 
 But in the deep lies darkling 
 
 The true life of the wine. 
 The froth is for the many, 
 
 The wine is for the few ; 
 Unseen, untouched of any, 
 
 V/c keep the best for you, 
 Old friends, 
 The very best for you. 
 
 "The manv" cannot know us. 
 They only pace the strand 
 
 Where at our worst we show us, 
 The waters thick with sand ; 
 
LOVB, SENTIMENT, AND FRIENDSHIP. 163 
 
 But out beyond the leaping 
 
 Dim surge " 't is clear and blue," 
 
 And there, old friends, we 're keeping 
 A waiting calm for you, 
 Old friends, 
 
 A sacred calm for you. 
 
 SOMETIMES. 
 
 Sometimes — not often — when the days are long, 
 
 And golden lie the ripening fields of grain, 
 Like cadence of some half-forgotten song, 
 
 There sweeps a memory across my brain. 
 I hear the handrail far among the grass, 
 
 The drowsy murmur in the scented lanes ; 
 I watch the radiant butterflies that pass, 
 
 And I am sad and sick at heart sometimes — 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Sometimes, when royal winter holds his sway, 
 
 When every cloucl is swept from azure skies, 
 And frozen pool and lighted hearth are gay 
 
 With laughing lips and yet more laughing eyes. 
 From far-off days an echo wanders by, 
 
 That makes a discord in the Christmas chimes ; 
 A moment in the dance or talk I sigh, 
 
 And seem half lonely in the crowd sometimes — 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Not often, not for long. O friend, my friend, 
 
 We were not lent our life that we might weep : 
 The flower-crowned May of earth hath soon an end ; 
 
 Should our fair spring a longer sojourn keep ? 
 Conies all too soon the time of fading leaves, 
 
 Come on the cold short days. We must arise 
 And go our way, and garner home our sheaves. 
 
 Though some far famt regret may cloud our eyes 
 Sometimes. 
 
 Sometimes I see a light almost divine 
 
 In meeting eyes of two that now are one. 
 Impatient of the tears that rise to mine, 
 
 I turn away to seek some work undone. 
 There dawns a look upon some stranger face ; 
 
 I think, " How like, and yet how far less fair ! ' 
 And look, and look again, and seek to trace 
 
 A moment more your fancied likeness there — 
 Sometimes. 
 
r 
 
 
 u 
 
 164 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 O sad, sweet thoughts I O foolish, vain regrets I 
 
 As wise it were, what time June roses blow. 
 To weep because the first blue violet 
 
 We found in spring has faded long ago. 
 O love, my love, if yet by song of bird. 
 
 By flower-scent, by some sad poet's rhymes, 
 My heart, that fain would be at peace, is stirred. 
 
 Am I to blame that still I sigh sometimes ? — 
 Sometimes ? 
 
 And sometimes know a pang of jealous pain, 
 
 That, while I walk all lonely, other eyes 
 May haply smile to yours that smile again 
 
 Beneath the sun and stars of Southern skies. 
 The past is past ; but is it sin, if yet 
 
 I, who in calm content would seek to dwell. 
 Who will not grieve, yet cannot quite forget. 
 
 Still send a thought to you, and wish you well 
 Sometimes ? 
 
 Louisa F. Story. 
 
 I I: 
 
 i' 
 
grets 1 
 blow. 
 
 mes, 
 stirred, 
 es? — 
 
 II n, 
 
 s 
 I 
 skies. 
 
 well, 
 
 ;et, 
 
 )u well 
 
 ISA F. Story. 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 €cl^ot^ Of tfte ^a^t 
 
> I 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 On thy cold gray stones, O Sea / 
 And I would that my tongue could utter 
 
 The thoughts that arise in me. 
 
 Oh well for the fisherman'' s boy. 
 
 That he shouts with his sister at play ! 
 
 Oh well for the sailor lad. 
 
 That he sings in his boat on the bay ! 
 
 And the stately ships go on 
 
 To their haven under the hill; 
 But oh for the touch (fa vanish" d hand, 
 
 And the sound of a voice that is still ! 
 
 Break, break, break, 
 
 At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! 
 But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
 
 Will never come back to me, 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
PART VI. 
 
 €t^ot^ of ti)e ^a^u 
 
 THE LOVE OF THE PAST. 
 
 As sailors watch from their prison 
 For the long, gray line of the coasts, 
 
 I look to the past re-arisen, 
 And joys come o\ .in hosts 
 Like the white sea-birds from their roosts 
 
 I K ve not the delicate present, 
 
 The future 's unknown to our quest ; 
 
 To-day is the life of the peasant. 
 But the past is a haven of rest, — 
 The joy of the past is the best. 
 
 The rose of the past is better 
 Than the rose we ravish to-day ; 
 
 'Tis holier, purer, and fitter 
 To place on the shrine where we pray, — 
 For the secret thoughts we obey. 
 
 There are no deceptions nor changes, 
 There all is as placid and still ; 
 
 No grief nor fate that estranges, 
 Nor hope that no life can fulfil ; 
 But ethereal shelter from ill. 
 
 The coarse delights of the hour 
 Tempt and debauch and deprave ; 
 
 And we joy in a poisonous flower, 
 Knowing that nothing can save 
 Our flesh from the fate of the grave. 
 
 But surely we leave them returning 
 In grief to the well-loved nest, 
 
 Filled with an infinite yearning, 
 Knowing the past to be rest, — 
 T' at the things of the past are the best. 
 TAe Spectator. 
 
i68 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. 
 
 O MEMORIES of green and pleasant places, 
 
 Where happy birds their woodnotes twittered low ! 
 
 O love that lit the dear familiar faces 
 We buried long ago 1 
 
 From barren heights their sweetness we remember, 
 And backward gaze with wistful, yearning eyes, 
 
 As hearts regret, mid snow-drifts of December, 
 The summer's sunny skies. 
 
 Glad hours that seemed their rainbow tints to borrow 
 From some illumined page of fairy lore ; 
 
 Bright days that never lacked a bright to-morrow, 
 Days that return no more. 
 
 Fair gardens, with their many-blossomed alleys, 
 And red, ripe roses breathing out perfume ; 
 
 Deep violet nooks in green, sequestered valleys 
 Empurpled o'er with bloom. 
 
 Sunset that lighted up the brown-leaved beeches, 
 Turning their dusky glooms to glittering gold , 
 
 Moonlight that on the river's fern-fringed beaches 
 Streamed white-rayed, silvery cold. 
 
 O'er moorlands bleak we wander weary-hearted, 
 Through many a tangled, wild, and thorny maze. 
 
 Remembering as in dreams the days departed, 
 The bygone, happy days. 
 
 H' 
 
 j 
 
 i 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 I. 
 
 O DREADFUL Memory I why dost thou tread 
 From out the secret chambers of my life } 
 
 Thou livest with the dead — go to thy dead! 
 Nor break my peaceful carelessness with strife. 
 
 Thy chains are heavy; tho" "-ast bound me fast. 
 
 I bend beneath the weight I have to bear ; 
 Leave me the Present, thou hast all the Past ! 
 
 Unbind me — go ! I keep the smallest share. 
 
 Art thou not weary of thy ceaseless chase ? 
 
 Day after day hast thou not followed me ? 
 Thou wert relentless to pursue the race, 
 
 Until thy chains had bound me hopelessly. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 169 
 
 I am thy captive ; I am weak, thou strong I 
 Be merciful ; cease to torment me more. 
 
 Spare me some pangs of torture, gritf, and wrong ; 
 Unloose my chains, thy wounds are deep and sore ! 
 
 II. 
 
 O faint, delicious Memory, I call : 
 Come very near; there is no friend iikc thee ! 
 
 See, I have nothing left, and thou hast all ! 
 For one short hour give it back to me. 
 
 Give me my charming sunmier skies again, 
 
 The fragrance of my spring and autumn breeze, 
 
 The moon that I have watched the rise and wane. 
 The birds I love to hear among the trees. 
 
 Sweet eyes, lost in the distance, draw more near ; 
 
 Dear hands, clasp mine — clasp closer yet, I pray ; 
 litlnvcd voices, speak that I may hear ; 
 
 Most precious Memory, go not away I 
 
 Without thee I am lonely ; it is strange, 
 Nothing is left that I can call my own. 
 
 The world is new, passing from change to change ; 
 My nest is empty, all my birds have flown. 
 
 Depart not yet, thy tones are verv sweet. 
 Echoes of faith and hope and victory ! 
 
 And is it true, ye lost, that we shall meet } 
 Canst thou restore thy treasures, Memory } 
 People's Miigazirie. 
 
 MEMORIES. 
 
 There dawn dear memories of the past 
 
 To charm us as we muse alone, 
 Still as the hues on rivers cast 
 
 When long, bright days have almost flown ; 
 Sometimes thev come and fill the mind 
 
 As stars the heavens when clouds are few ; 
 And there a cherished welcome find, — 
 
 Though old, yet seeming ever new. 
 
 They are the treasures time has made 
 
 To shadow forth the bygone years ; 
 Though dim betimes, they cannot fade, 
 
 For each some hallowed beauty bears. 
 T^ong-slumbering joys each gently wakes. 
 
 Forms of the past each gently weaves, — 
 E'en as a cloudless sunset makes 
 
 A cool, red splendor 'mong green leaves. 
 
w 
 
 170 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 They are the day-dreams of a time 
 Ere life had felt the touch of care ; 
 
 Loved like some sweet bell's holy chime 
 That faints upon the Sabbath air. 
 
 They are the echoes of the past, 
 
 And with us, when alone, they dwell ; 
 
 For all their wondrous beauties last, 
 
 < Like sounds of ocean in a shell. 
 
 
 I 
 
 M 
 
 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 One by one the old-time fancies 
 Fall like blossoms in the blast ; 
 
 One by one girlhood's romances 
 Fade from present into past. 
 
 One by one the rosy cloudlets, 
 Tinted with the hues of dawn, 
 
 Lose the brightness and the beauty 
 That belong alone to morn. 
 
 Very fair the cherished visions 
 That enchant the halls of youth ; 
 
 Earthly scenes seem then Elysian, 
 And the mirage is as truth. 
 
 One by one the visions vanish 
 In the light experience brings ; 
 
 But though truth the unreal banish, 
 Still remain the living springs. 
 
 Though may fade the sparkling fountain 
 Glittering in the morning ray, 
 
 Still upon life's rugged mountain 
 Streams perennial take their way. 
 
 Then, my soul, be not disheartened 
 
 If thy castles fade in air. 
 And thy sunny sky be darkened 
 
 With unwonted shades of care. 
 
 Still be thine to choose and cherish 
 All things beautiful and bright. 
 
 Though thy fancy's garlands perish 
 In earth s disenchanting light. 
 
 Still be thine to see the rainbow 
 Spanning life's most dreary slope; 
 
 And to dieam of deathless beauty 
 In the garden of thy hope. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST, 
 
 HAUNTED CHAMLLRS. 
 
 In the old and ruined mansion 
 
 Where no joyous voices call, 
 And the gloor.iy shadows linger 
 
 Like a solemn funeral pall ; 
 In some dim deserted passage 
 
 Into ruin falling fast, 
 Aye, they say, the chamber 's haunted 
 
 With the spirits of the past. 
 
 When the shades of night have gathered, 
 
 There with deep, majestic gloom 
 Are these chambers clothed, while spectres 
 
 Gather hither from the tomb. 
 Not wHh loud, unhallowed sounding, 
 
 Not with vain, unanswered call, 
 Are they gathered, but in silence, — 
 
 Mystic, mournful silence all. 
 
 Forms that once were bright with beii . , 
 
 Faces wan that once were fair, 
 Sadly come amid the silence 
 
 That at midnight reigneth there. 
 There they love to lin^^^r lightly 
 
 Till the s.ars have ceased to glo^ — 
 Linger lonely in the places 
 
 That were joyous " long ago." 
 
 There are chambers, haunted chambers, 
 
 Which we each may call our own, 
 Where are present forms and faces 
 
 That in other days were known. 
 In the silence of the midnight 
 
 We, from busy life apart. 
 Glance in sadness and in sorrow 
 
 At the chambers of the heart. 
 
 Ah, what forms are these to haunt us 
 
 When alone with thought at night I 
 Ah, what faces look upon us 
 
 That we deemed were lost to sight I 
 Some are bright as when we knew them. 
 
 Others wan and filled with woe ; 
 All awake the thoughts that slumbered 
 
 Of the days of " long ago." 
 
 Ah, the haunted, haunted chambers 
 
 Of the weary human heart ; 
 They are filled with mournful visions 
 
 That can nevermore depart 
 
 171 
 
172 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Till that heart ha3 ceased its throbbing 
 In the sorrow-laden breast, 
 
 And the visions of the vanished 
 Are forevcrmore at rest. 
 
 OUR CHILDHOOD'S HOME. 
 
 S*i 
 
 ^ w 
 
 s. 
 
 Thkre is one spot on all the earth, 
 
 Where'er in after life we rove, 
 To which the heart will ever turn 
 
 With an unchanging, deathless love. 
 Seas may perchance roll far between, 
 
 To distant lands the feet may roam. 
 But memory turns with yearninc back 
 
 To it, our loved, our childhood's home. 
 
 Our childhood's home — who can forget 
 
 The many happy, happy years 
 Spent there when all the world seemed bright, 
 
 And all unknown were cares and tears ? 
 The morning sun beamed brightly down 
 
 On tranquil brows, and never care 
 Had traced a line, nor sorrow stamped 
 
 Its desolating impress there. 
 
 But swiftly flew the summer hours 
 
 With laugh and jest and guileless song, 
 And in a pathway strewed with flowers 
 
 We sped our happy way along ; 
 We revelled in a sea of love, — 
 
 A perfect Eden of delight ; 
 And years flew on and brought no change, 
 
 For all was pure and all was bright. 
 
 How different now ! No more we see 
 
 The pleasant home we loved so well ; 
 No more we hear in silvery tones 
 
 The simple song of evening swell. 
 We miss the father's kind caress. 
 
 The mother's kiss and accents mild ; 
 The sister's smile, the brother's clasp, — 
 
 All that was valued when a child. 
 
 What have we gained in lieu of these ? 
 
 We sought for wealth, perchance a name ; 
 But what is wealth compared with love, 
 
 And who can climb the steep of Fame ? 
 With weary heart and throbbing brow. 
 
 And mind with many cares oppressed. 
 Night after night we seek our couch, 
 
 And "sink to sleep but not to rest." 
 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 And still through all the busy strife, 
 
 Through all the cares and maddening fears 
 Of life, the heart will wander back 
 
 To those beloved and happy years ; 
 And wc shall say, in all the earth, 
 
 No matter where the feet may roam, 
 We may not find the stainless truth 
 
 That blessed our childhood's happy home. 
 
 Friendship is but a hollow mask, 
 
 Ambition but an empty name. 
 And disappointment waits on him 
 
 Who follows in pursuit of fame. 
 And then at last we drop and fade 
 
 Like autumn leaves, and fall and die. 
 With no kind hand to raise the head, 
 
 And gently close the dying eye. 
 
 Followed by strangers to the grave, 
 
 Few our departure to deplore, 
 The clay falls coldly on the breast. 
 
 The mound is raised, and all is o'er 1 
 And yet not all ; for in that land 
 
 Where tears and trials never come, 
 Thank God I we yet may join the band 
 
 Who shared with us our childhood's home. 
 
 173 
 
 R. S. 
 
 A RAINY DAY. 
 
 How tired one grows of a rainy day, 
 For a rainy day brings back so much ; 
 
 Old dreams revive that are buried away, 
 And the past comes back to the sight and touch. 
 
 When the night is short and the day is long, 
 And the rain falls down with ceaseless beat, 
 
 We tire of our thoughts as we tire of a song 
 That over and over is played in the street. 
 
 When I woke this morning and heard the splash 
 f)f the rain-drop over the tall elm's leaves, 
 
 I was carried back in a lightning flash 
 To the dear old home with the sloping eaves. 
 
 And you and T, in the garret high. 
 Were playing again at hide-go-seek; 
 
 And bright was the light of your laughing eye, 
 And rich the glow of your rounded cheek. 
 
174 
 
 , i 
 
 
 I' 
 
 i 
 
 ! 
 
 1 
 
 ** 
 
 1 
 
 J 
 
 1 
 
 ( 
 
 k 
 
 .1 
 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And again I was nestled in my white bed 
 
 Under the caves, and hearing above 
 The feet of the rain-steeds over my head, 
 
 While I dreamed sweet dreams of you, my love. 
 
 Love, my lover, v. 1th eyes of truth, — 
 
 beautiful love of the vanished years, 
 There is no other love like the love of youth, 
 
 1 say it over and over with tears. 
 
 Wealth and honor and fame may come, — 
 They cannot replace what is taken away ; 
 
 There is no other home like the childhood's home. 
 No other love like the love of May. 
 
 Though the sun is bright in the mid-day skies, 
 There cometh an hour when the sad heart grieves 
 
 With a lonely wail, like a lost child's cry. 
 For the trundle-bed and the sloping eaves ; 
 
 When, with vague unrest and nameless pain. 
 We hunger and thirst for a voice and touch 
 
 That we never on earth shall know again — 
 Oh, a rainy day brings back so much I 
 
 UNFINISHED STILL. 
 
 A HABY's boot and a skein of wool, 
 
 Faded and soiled and soft ; 
 Odd things, you say, and I doubt you 're right, 
 Round a seaman's neck, this stormy night, 
 
 Up in the yards aloft. 
 
 Most likely it 's folly ; but, mate, look here ! 
 
 When first I went to sea, 
 A woman stood on yon far-off strand 
 With a wedding ring on the small soft hand 
 
 Which clung close to me. 
 
 My wife, — God bless her I — the day before 
 
 Sat she beside my foot ; 
 And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair, 
 And the dainty fingers, deft and fair. 
 
 Knitted a baby's boot. 
 
 The voyage was over ; I came ashore ; 
 
 What think you I found there ? 
 A grave the daisies had sprinkled white, 
 A cottage empty and dark at night. 
 
 And this beside the chair. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 175 
 
 The liitle boot, 't was unfinished still ; 
 
 The tangled skein lay near ; 
 But the knitter had gone away to her rest, 
 %Vith the babe asleep on her quiet breast, 
 
 Down in the churchyard drear. 
 
 A VACiRANT. 
 
 I CANNOT check my thought these days, 
 
 When incense lingers in the air. 
 But with unwearied wing it strays, 
 
 I know not how or where. 
 
 I know not where the blossoms hide 
 That throw their lures across its flight ; 
 
 How stars can fling their gates so wide, 
 To give my thought delight. 
 
 There is no door close barred and scaled 
 
 Where cowers suffering or sin, 
 But will to touch or whisper yield, 
 
 And let this vagrant in. 
 
 It bears no passport, no parole, 
 
 But, free and careless as the air. 
 My thought despises all control. 
 
 And wanders everywhere. 
 
 Its warrant from the Throne of thrones, 
 
 Its duty to the King of kings, 
 Through heights, and depths, and circling zones 
 
 It soars on seraph wings. 
 
 What canst thou bring from yon fair height. 
 What bring me from the deepening sea ? 
 
 What gather for thy own delight 
 That is not wealtn to me } 
 Scribner's Magazine. Josephine Pollard. 
 
 DREAMS. 
 
 Good-night? ah I no; the hour is ill 
 Which severs those it should unite ; 
 
 Let us remain together still, 
 Then it will be good-mz\^i. 
 
 Shelley. 
 
 The night hours wane, the bleak winds of December 
 Sweep through the branches of the singing pine, 
 
 And while I watch each slowly dying ember 
 I dream of joys that never may be mine. 
 
176 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The vacant chair, the room so sad and lonely, 
 Uring visions of a home 'neath other skies, 
 
 A home created by my fancy only, 
 My heart's true rest, my earthly paradise. 
 
 In the night watches when my hands are folded 
 In weary calm upon my hopeless breast, 
 
 Tb'^se bright creatures, by my heart's love moulded, 
 quicken its beat, and rise all unrepresscd. 
 
 Roof tree and tower and portal rise unaided ; 
 
 Aladdin like, their instant birth I see ; 
 And at love's shrine, by doublings uninvaded, 
 
 I offer up my wild idolatry. 
 
 Only the fire's warm heart, intensely glowing, 
 Sends languid throbs of brightness through the gloom. 
 
 And gorgeous flowers, with tropic life o'crflowing, 
 Pour on the peaceful air their sweet perfume. 
 
 Now clasp I in my arms my long-sought treasure, 
 Now a dear head is pillowed on my breast ; 
 
 And with a joy no earthly tongue can measure, 
 Warm, trembling lips to mine are fondly pressed. 
 
 For thou art with me, with thy presence blessing, 
 TluHi dearest, best, my first love and my last ; 
 
 Within thy arms, thy purest love possessing, 
 Darkness is gone, and night is overpast. 
 
 rapturous kisses ! passionate caressing I 
 O heart's quick beating with a wild delight ! 
 
 O murmured words, our mutual love confessing ! 
 Parted no more, at last it is good-night. 
 
 AN OLD SONG. 
 
 You laugh as you turn the yellow page 
 Of that queer old song you sing. 
 
 And wonder how folks could ever see 
 
 A charm in the sim])le melody 
 Of such an old-fashioned thing. 
 
 That yellow page was fair to view, 
 That quaint old type was fresh and new, 
 That simple strain was our delight 
 When here we gathered night by night. 
 And thought the music of our day 
 An endless joy to sing and play, 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 177 
 
 In our youth, long, long ago. 
 A joyous group we loved to meet, 
 When ho]5e was high and life was sweet ; 
 When romance shed its golden light, 
 That circled, in a nimbus bright. 
 
 O'er Time's unwrinkled brow. 
 
 The lips are mute that sang these words ; 
 The hands are still that struck these chords ; 
 
 The loving heart is cold. 
 From out the circle, one by one. 
 Some dear companion there has gone. 
 While others stay to find how true 
 That life has chord and discord too, 
 
 And all of us are old. 
 
 'T is not alone when music thrills. 
 The power of thought profound that fills 
 
 The soul ! 'T is not all art ! 
 The old familiar tones we hear 
 Die not upon the listening ear; 
 
 They vibrate in the heart. 
 
 And now you know the reason, dear, 
 Why I have kept and treasured here 
 
 This song of bygone years. 
 You laugh at the old-fashioned strain ; 
 It bringF, my childhood back again. 
 
 And fills my eyes with tears. 
 
 THE BOAT-HORN. 
 
 On, list the boat-horn's wild refrain. 
 
 O'er eve's still waters stealing clear! 
 So softly sweet, so sad a strain 
 
 Ne'er woke before to charm the car. 
 From out the past it brings once more, 
 
 As waking echoes of a dream, 
 The tree-clad hills, the isles and shore, 
 
 Ot wild Ohio's vinding streani. 
 
 Out on the wave while sweeping down 
 
 The boatman trod his little deck, 
 And dreamed, while lay his all around, 
 
 Of strange adventure, storm, and wreck 
 That strain he wound his way to cheer 
 
 In dewv eve and golden morn ; 
 The startled Indian paused to lu ar. 
 
 In echoes sweet, that simple horn. 
 
 13 
 
178 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 He came, rough courier of the men, 
 
 The thronging thousands pressing on, 
 With axes ringing in the glen, 
 
 And camps the gleaming hills upon. 
 Gone arc the forests, gone the race. 
 
 The dusky shadows of the shore; 
 The hum of busy life keeps pace 
 
 To music of the steamer's roar. 
 
 boatman, wind thy horn again, 
 The simple music of the heart; 
 
 What memories live along its strain, 
 
 And into being softly start ! 
 The wood-crowned hills, the isles, the stream, 
 
 In sweetest musings wide expand; 
 
 1 see as in a summer's dream 
 The romance of my native land. 
 
 !| ^1 
 
 
 THE OLD DEACON'S LAMENT. 
 
 Yes, I 'vc been a deacon of our church 
 
 Nigh on to fifty year. 
 Walked in the way of dooty, too, 
 
 And kep' my conscience clear. 
 I 'vc watched the children growin' up. 
 
 Seen brown locks turnin' gray, 
 But never saw sech doin's yet 
 
 As those I 've seen to-day. 
 
 This church was built by godly men 
 
 To glorify the Lord, 
 In seventeen hundred eighty-eight ; 
 
 Folks could n't then afford 
 Carpets, cushings, and sech like — 
 
 The seats were jest plain wood. 
 Too narrer for the sleci^y ones ; 
 
 In prayer wc alius stood. 
 
 And when the hymns were given out, 
 
 I tell you it was grand 
 To hear our leader start the tunes, 
 
 With tunin'-fork in hand ! 
 Then good old " China," " IVfcar," and all, 
 
 Were heard on Sabbath days, 
 And men and women, boys and girls, 
 
 J'incd in the song of praise. 
 
 But that old pulpit was my pride — 
 Jest eight feet from the ground 
 
 They'd reared it up — on either side 
 A narrer stairs went down ; 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 The front and ends were fitly carved 
 
 With Scripter stories all, — 
 Findin' of Moses, Jacob's dream, 
 
 And sinful Adam's fall. 
 
 Jijst room inside to put a cheer, 
 
 The Bible on the ledge 
 (I Mi own I did git narvous when 
 
 He shoved it to the edge). 
 There week by week the parson stood 
 
 The Scripter to expound ; 
 There, man and boy, I 've sot below, 
 
 And not a fault was found. 
 
 Of course I 've seen great changes made, 
 
 And fought agenst 'cm too ; 
 And first a choir was intcrdooccd, 
 
 Then cushings in each pew ; 
 Next, boughten carpet for the floor j 
 
 And then, that very year. 
 We got our new melocfeon 
 
 And the big shandylecr. 
 
 Well, well ! I tried to keep things straight 
 
 I went to ev'ry meetin' 
 And voted " No" to all thcv said. 
 
 And found mv influ'nte Hcetin'. 
 At last the worst misfortin' fell — 
 
 I must bl;imc Deacon I'rown ; 
 He hel])cd the young folks when they said 
 
 The pulpit should come down. 
 
 They laughed .it all those pious scenes 
 
 I 'd found so cdifyin'; 
 Said, "\Vhcn the parson rose to preach, 
 
 He looked a'most like flyin';" 
 Said that " Elijah's chariot 
 
 Jest half-way up had tarried ; " 
 And Deacon IJrown sot bv and laughed, — 
 
 And so the p'int was carried. 
 
 This was last week. The carpenters 
 
 Have nearlv made an end — 
 Excoose my fcelin's. Seems to me 
 
 As ef I 'd lost a friend. 
 "Tt made their ncrks ache, lookin' up," 
 
 Was what the folks did say ; 
 More lookin' up would help us all 
 
 In this degin'rate day. 
 
 The church \vf)n't never seem the same 
 
 ( f 'm half afraid) to me, 
 Umler llie preaiiiin' of the truth 
 
 I 've ben so used to be. 
 
 179 
 
i 
 
 180 
 
 \ if ^ 
 
 I ii 
 
 IM •:*' 
 
 
 W 1 
 
 T/^E HUMBLER POET^. 
 
 And now to see our parson staui 
 
 Like any comnion man, 
 With jcsi a railin' round his tlogk — 
 
 I don't believe I can ! 
 
 mks. l. r 
 
 -ORl'r.TT. 
 
 FORKVIlR. 
 
 FoRKVER and ever the reddening leaves 
 
 Float to the sodden grasses, 
 Forever and ever the siiivering troes 
 Cower and shriek to the chilling l)reeze 
 That sweeps from the far-off sudden seas, 
 
 To wither them as it passes. 
 
 Forever and ever the low gray sky 
 
 Stoops o'er the sorrowful earth; 1 
 
 1 ver and ever the steady rain 
 
 Falls on hare bleak hill and barren plain, 
 
 And flashes on roof and window-pane, 
 And hisses upon the hearth. 
 
 Forever and ever the wearv thoughts 
 
 Are tracing the selfsame track 
 P'orevcr and ever, to and fro, 
 On the old unchanging road they go, 
 Through dreaming and waking, through j(.\ and woe, 
 
 Calling the dead hours back. 
 
 Forever and r-ver the tired heart 
 
 ronder.- . :r the evil done; 
 Forever and e.cr through cloud and glciiii 
 Tracing the course of the strong liie-sti^.tMU, 
 And dreary and dull as ihc l)roker, dream. 
 
 lorevcr the rain rain* on. 
 
 TIIK WANDER FR. 
 
 (Lines written on recrossing the Rocky ^Iountain^; in winter .ifter many years ) 
 
 I,()NG years ago I wandered here, 
 In the midsummer of the year — 
 
 Life's summer too. 
 A score of horsemen here we rode, 
 The mountain 'vorld its glories showed, 
 
 All fair to view 
 
 These scenes, in glowing colors drest, 
 Mirrored the life within my breast, — 
 Its world of hope. 
 
Littelfs LMug Age. 
 
 ECHOES OF THE PAST. \6\ 
 
 The whispering woods and fragrnnt ])l.x^c 
 That stiiTci; '.he grass in vord.mt seas 
 ''^n ])illo»vy sl>>pc, 
 
 And glistening crag in sunlit sky, 
 
 'Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, 
 
 Were joys to ine ; 
 My palh was o'er the prairie wide, 
 Or here on grander mountain side, 
 
 To choose, all free. 
 
 The rose that waved in morning air, 
 That spread its dewy fragrance there 
 
 In careless l)lo()ni. 
 Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue, 
 O'er my glad life its color threw, 
 
 And sweet perfume. 
 
 Now changed the scene and changed the eves 
 That here once looked on glowing skies 
 
 Where sunnncr smiled ; 
 These riven trees and wind-swept |)lain 
 Now show the winter's dread domain — 
 
 Its fury wild. 
 
 The roclrs rise lilack from storm-packed snow, 
 All checked the river's pleasant flow, 
 
 Vanislied the bloom; 
 These dreary wastes of frozen jjlain 
 Reflect my bosom's life again. 
 
 Now lonesome gloom. 
 
 The buoyant hopes and busy life 
 Have ended all in hateful strife 
 
 And thwarted aim. 
 The world's rude cd tact kills the rose, 
 No more its radiant coli>r shows 
 
 False roads to fame. 
 
 backward amid the twilight glow 
 Some lingering spots yet brightly show 
 
 On hard roads won 
 Where still some grand ficaks mark the wav, 
 Touched \v; the light of parting day 
 
 And memory's sun. 
 
 Put here thick clouds the mountains hide, 
 The dim horizoii, bleak and wide, 
 
 No pathwav shows. 
 And rising gu.^ts and darkening sky 
 Tell of "the ni^ht that cometh " nigh 
 
 The brief day's close. 
 
 .AVONYMOI'S. 
 {Asrrififii hv tkf .\'. )' Ftenittg- Post 
 tti General Jchn C. Fremont \ 
 
l82 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 REST. 
 
 Love, give me one of thy dear hands to hold, 
 
 Take thou my tired head upon thy breast, 
 Then sing me that sweet song we loved of old, 
 
 The dear, soft song about our little nest. 
 Wc knew the song before the nest was ours ; 
 
 We sang the song when first the nest wc found ; 
 We loved the song in happy after-hours 
 
 When peace came to us and content profound. 
 Then sing that olden song to me to-night, 
 
 While I, reclining on thy faithful breast, 
 See happy visions in the frail firelight, 
 
 And my whole soul is satisfied with rest. 
 I^etter than all our bygone dreams of bliss , 
 
 Are deep content and rest secure as this. 
 
 V, •-. 
 
 \ */ 
 
 What though we missed love's golden summer-time. 
 
 His autumn fruits were ripe when we had leave 
 To enter joy's wide vineyard in our prime, 
 
 (jood guerdon for our waiting to receive. 
 Love gave us no frail pledge of summer flowers, 
 
 But side by side we reaped the harvest field ; 
 Now side by side we pass the winter hours, 
 
 And day by day new blessings are revealed. 
 The heyday of our youth, its roseate glow, 
 
 Its high desires and cravings manifold, 
 The raptures ant delights of long ago, 
 
 Have passed ; but we have truer joys to hold. 
 Sing me the dear old song about the nest, 
 Our blessed home, our little ark of rest. 
 
 THE LOST BABIES. 
 
 Come, my wife, put down the Bible, 
 
 Lay your glasses on the book ; 
 Both of us are l)cnt and aged — 
 
 Backward, mother, let us look. 
 This is still the same old homestead 
 
 Where I brought you long ago, 
 When the luiir was bright with sunshine 
 
 That is now like winter's snow. 
 Let us talk about tiie babies, 
 
 As we sit here all alone ; 
 Such a merry troop of youngsters, — 
 
 iluw wc lost them one by one. 
 
 I tl 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 Jack, the first of all our party, 
 
 Came to us one winter's night. 
 Jack, you said, should be a parson, 
 
 Long before he saw the light. 
 Do you see the great cathedral, 
 
 Filled the transept and the nave, 
 Hear the organ gladly pealing. 
 
 Watch the silken hangings wave ? 
 See the priest in robes of office, 
 
 With the altar at his back. — 
 Would you think that gifted ])rcacher 
 
 Could be our own little Jack ? 
 
 Then, a girl with curly tresses 
 
 Used to climb upon my knee 
 Like a little fairy princess. 
 
 Ruling at the age of three. 
 With the years there came a wedding — 
 
 How your fond heart swelled with pride 
 When the lord of all the country 
 
 Chose your baby for his bride ! 
 Watch that stately carriage coming. 
 
 And the form reclining there, — 
 Would you think that brilliant lady 
 
 Could be our own little Clare .* 
 
 183 
 
 Then, the last, a blue-eyed youngster,- 
 
 I can hear him prattling now, — 
 Such a strong and sturdy fellow. 
 
 With his broad and honest brow. 
 How he used to love his mother ! 
 
 Ah ! I see your trembling lip I 
 He is far off on the water, 
 
 CajHain of a royal ship. 
 See the bronze upon his forehead. 
 
 Hear the voice of stern command, - 
 That 's the boy who clung so fondly 
 
 To his mother's gentle hand. 
 
 Ah ! my wife, we 've lost the babies, 
 
 Ours so long and ours alone. 
 What are we to those great people, 
 
 Stately men and women grown i 
 Seldom do wc even see them ; 
 
 Ves, a bitter tear-drop starts 
 As we sit here in the tirelight, 
 
 Lonely hearth and lonely hearts. 
 All their lives are full without us; 
 
 They'll stop long enough one day 
 Just to lay us in tlic churchyard. 
 
 Then they '11 each go on his way. 
 
1 84 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 Whkn the morning fair and sweet 
 (ilimmcrs throiigli tiie dusky pane, 
 
 For the tread of pattering feet, 
 Ah ! I list in vain. 
 
 Not an echo haunts the hall — 
 
 Oh, each gladsome, light footfall ; 
 
 Not an echo wakes the stair — 
 
 Silence, silence everywhere ; 
 
 They are gone ! 
 
 When I leave my sleepless bed, 
 Passing from the chambered gloom, 
 
 No red cheek and flower-like head 
 Lift to me their bloom ; 
 
 Only darkness in the hall 
 
 Lingers like a clouded i)all ; 
 
 Round the threshold, o'er the stair — 
 
 Darkness, darkness everywhere ; 
 They are gone ! 
 
 When from out the toilsome mart, 
 
 Hopeless, weary, I return. 
 Oh, these wasting fires at heart — 
 
 How they burn — they burn ! 
 Passionate grief scent etl ^\m'K in dearth. 
 But beside my ruined hearth 
 All the anguish, all the pain, 
 Bursts in flaming woe again — 
 They are gone ! 
 
 When the twilight hour comes down, 
 
 Of all hours the calmest, best, 
 Hovering like an angel's crown 
 
 O'er the day's unrest, 
 Whence this alien, brooding air.* 
 Whence this whisper of despair } 
 'T is but Heartbreak's hollow tone 
 Muttering, "Canst thou live alone? 
 They are gone 1 " 
 
 Gone ! In silences of night 
 
 Hapless hamls I stretch to find 
 Vacant spaces left and right, 
 
 Vacant as the wind. 
 While a mother's moan is heard, 
 Low, as if some wounded bird. 
 Sore of wing and sore of breast, 
 Wailed above her shattered nest: 
 All are ^oiie ! 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 I«5 
 
 MOTHER. 
 
 WiiF.N she undid licr hair at night, 
 
 About the time for lying down, 
 She came and knelt. I was so small. 
 There in my bed, her curls did fall 
 All over me, light gold and brown. 
 
 I fell asleep amid her prayers. 
 
 Her fair young face (far off it seems), 
 '^ler girlish voice, her kisses sweet, 
 The patter of her busy feet, 
 
 Passed with me into charming dreams. 
 
 And when I woke at merry morn, 
 
 Through her gold hair I saw the sun 
 Flame strong, shine glad, and glorify 
 The great, good world. Oh, never can I 
 Forget her words, *' My darling one I " 
 
 Ah! checkered years since tlu u have crept 
 Past her and me, and we have known 
 
 Some sorrow and much tempered joy. 
 
 Far into manhood stands her boy, 
 And her gold hair snow-white is blown. 
 
 The world has changed by slow degrees, 
 
 And as old davs recede, alas ! 
 So much of trouble have the new. 
 Those rare, far joys grow dim seen through 
 
 Sad times as through a darkened glass. 
 
 Dut just this morning when I woke. 
 
 How lovinglv my lips were kissed! 
 How chaste and clear the sunlight shone 
 On mother's hair, like gold-dust sown 
 Athwart thin clouds of silver mist 1 
 
 AT SEA. 
 
 Worn voyagers, who watch for land 
 Across the enilkss wastes of sea, 
 
 Who gaze before antl on each hand. 
 Why look ye not to what ye flee 1 
 
 The stars by which the sailors steer 
 Not alwavs rise before the prow; 
 
 Though forward nought but clouds appear, 
 Behind, they may be breaking now. 
 
1 86 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 What though we may not turn again 
 To lihort's of childhood that wc leave, 
 
 Arc those old signs we followed vain ? 
 Can guides so oft found true deceive? 
 
 Oh, sail we to the south or north. 
 
 Oh, sail we to the east or west. 
 The port from which we first put forth 
 
 Is our heart's home, is our life's best. 
 
 F. W. 1)R00KS. 
 
 4 i 
 
 I 1 
 
 MY LOST LOVE. 
 
 When the silence of the midnight 
 
 Closes round my lonely room. 
 And faintly struggling through the curtains 
 
 Mystic moonbeams light the gloom ; 
 When above the fevered fancies 
 
 Of the weary heart and brain 
 Kindly slumber, creeping near me. 
 
 Reasserts her welcome reign ; 
 In the seeming 
 Of my dreaming, 
 In all the glow that used to be. 
 My lost love comes back to me. 
 
 When the fair, delusive phantom 
 
 Fades before the wakening dawn. 
 And the rosy smile of sunrise 
 
 Gleams athwart the dew-drenched lawn ; 
 Gazing from the open lattice, 
 
 Yearning memory pictures there. 
 Shadowed by enlacing branches. 
 
 Sweet blue eyes and golden hair ; 
 And the sunlight 
 Takes the one light 
 That it had for me ercwiiile 
 In my lost love's happy smile. 
 
 In the glory of the noontide, 
 
 Her low ringing laugh I hear; 
 In the whispering of the leaflets. 
 
 Her light footstep springing near; 
 In each snow-white lily's swaying 
 
 Is reflection of her grace ; 
 In each rose's opening beauty 
 
 Shines for me her lair young face; 
 Till through the falling 
 Shadows calling. 
 As even darkens hill and plain, 
 I hear my lost love's voice again. 
 
 % i 
 
AH the Year A'o.nti/. 
 
 ECHOES 01- THE PAST. 
 
 So the hours arc peopled for me 
 
 Through the hauutcci chiys aud nights; 
 While fancy mocks my lonclv vigils 
 
 With the gliost of dead delights ; 
 And I let loud life sweep by me, 
 
 Dreaming liy the silent hearth, 
 "Where the vision of my darling 
 
 Gives old gladness back to earth : 
 While through each gloaming 
 Softly coming, 
 In sweet, false lights of joy and truth, 
 My lost love gives mc back my youth. 
 
 187 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 When we see our dream-ships slipping 
 
 Erom the verge of youth's green slope - 
 Loosening from the transient moorings 
 
 At the golden shore of hope — 
 Vanishing, like airy bubbles, 
 
 On tiie rough, tried sea of care. 
 Then the sold grows sick with lunging 
 
 'I'hat is almost wild despair. 
 
 Far behind lies sunny childhoorl — 
 
 Kields of flowers our feet have trod 
 When our vision-bounded Eden 
 
 Held no mystery luit Ood; 
 When in dreams we s|)oke with angels, 
 
 When awake, w ith brooks and birds, 
 Reading in the breeze ami sunshine 
 
 Love's unspoken, tender words. 
 
 When the stars were lighted candles 
 
 Shining through Ciod's floor of blue, 
 And the moon was but a w nulow 
 
 Eor the angels to lo<jk through ; 
 Clouds took shape of wondrous seeming, 
 
 Eairie> hid themselves in flowers ; 
 Morning-rise and sunset glories 
 
 Were but doors to heaven's bowers. 
 
 Ah ! the sweet conceits and fancies 
 
 With which sunny childhood teems I 
 'Tis not strange the sickened si)irit 
 
 Clasps the shadows of such dreams ; 
 That, when life is stern and real, 
 
 Hope is crowded out by fears. 
 Love grown wearied of her vigHs, 
 
 Back we look with bitter tears. 
 

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 1 88 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Life is but a rugged iiillsidc 
 
 When cool science puts to flight 
 Childhood's treasured love of dreaming 
 
 Tinted all with rosy light. 
 For though years may bring us wisdom, 
 
 Distrust poisons holy truth; 
 So we turn, soul-sick with yearning, 
 
 To the sweet beliefs of youth I 
 
 And sometimes we question sadly, 
 
 Wherefore all life's bitter pain ? 
 Are our dreams of hope and gladness — 
 
 Are our strivings all in vain ? 
 Shall we find the scattered roses 
 
 That our careless hands have lost ? 
 Wander to the thornless pathways 
 
 That our feet so thoughtless crossed ? 
 
 And the answer, deep and solemn, 
 
 Seems to vibrate through all space : 
 Life is but a course of trial, 
 
 Childhood starts and ends the race. 
 For the harvests faithful gathered 
 
 Through the strife of toil and tears, 
 For the burdens borne in patience, 
 
 Joy will crown the endless years. 
 
 THE PASTOR'S REVERIE. 
 
 The pastor sits in his easy-chair, 
 
 With the Bible upon his knee : 
 From gold to purple the clouds in the west 
 
 Are changing momently ; 
 The shadows lie in the valleys below. 
 
 And hide in the curtain's fold ; 
 And the page grows dim whereon he reads, 
 
 " I remember the days of old." 
 
 " Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith, 
 
 The pastor's memories are ; 
 No day that is gone is shadowless. 
 
 No night was without its star : 
 But mingled bitter and sweet hath been 
 
 The portion of his cup ; 
 "The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith, 
 
 " In love hath bound us up." 
 
 Fleet flies his thought over many a field 
 
 Of stubble and snow and bloom. 
 And now it trips throiigh a festival, 
 
 And now it halts at a tomb ; 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 Young faces smile in his reverie 
 
 Of those that are young no more, 
 And voices are heard that only come 
 
 With the winds from a far-off shore. 
 
 He thinks of the day when first, with fear 
 
 And faltering lips, he stood 
 To speak in the sacred place the Word 
 
 To the waiting multitude ; 
 He walks again to the house of God, 
 
 With the voice of joy and praise. 
 With many whose feet long time have pressed 
 
 Heaven's safe and blessed ways. 
 
 He enters again the homes of toil, 
 
 And joins in the homely chat ; 
 He stands in the shop of the artisan ; 
 
 He sits where the Master Eat, 
 At the poor man'.s fire and the rich man's feast. 
 
 But who to-day are the poor, 
 And who are the rich .'' Ask Him who keeps 
 
 The treasures that ever endure. 
 
 Once more the green and grove resound 
 
 With the merry children's din ; 
 He hears their shout at the Christmas Tide, 
 
 When Santa Claus stalks in. 
 Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars 
 
 On the distant mountain-side, 
 Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook 
 
 Where the fierce young troutlings hide. 
 
 And now he beholds the wedding train 
 
 To the altar slowly move. 
 And the solemn words are said that seal 
 
 The sacrament of love. 
 Anon at the font he meets once more 
 
 The tremulous youthful pair. 
 With a white-robed cherub crowing response 
 
 To the consecrating prayer. 
 
 13y the couch of pain he kneels again ; 
 
 Again the thin hand lies 
 Cold in his palm, while the last far look 
 
 Steals into the steadfast eyes ; 
 And now the burdens of heaVts that break 
 
 Lie heavy upon his own, — 
 The widow's woe, and the orphan's cry. 
 
 And the desolate mother's moan. 
 
 So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad, 
 
 Are the days that arc no more ; 
 So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float 
 
 With the winds from a far-off shore. 
 
 189 
 
ipo THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word 
 
 That is given him to keep, — 
 ** Rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
 
 And weep with them that weep." 
 
 It is not in vain that he has trod 
 
 This lonely and toilsome way, 
 It is not in vain that he has wrought 
 
 In the vineyard all the day ; 
 For the soul that gives is the soul that lives, 
 
 And bearing another's load 
 Doth lighten your own, and shorten the way, 
 
 And brighten the homeward road. 
 
 HAWTHORN. 
 
 1 t: 
 
 1 ! 
 
 I SEE her where the budding May 
 Throws shadows on the grassy way 
 
 And flecks her robe of white ; 
 Unseen I watch her as she stands. 
 With fragrant hawthorn in her hands, 
 
 A vision of delight. 
 
 She stays, but will not tarry long 
 To hear the thrush's vernal song 
 
 In blossom-boughs above; 
 And in my sheltered garden-seat 
 I too can hear the carol sweet 
 
 Of songster's happy love. 
 
 From out the leaves that shade my face 
 I watch her in her girlish grace, 
 
 The daughter of my friend. 
 On whose sweet life, for whose sweet sake. 
 Love hath such precious things at stake, 
 
 In whom such heart ties blend. 
 
 My May-day maiden, thought runs back 
 O'er that long-trodden, sunlit track. 
 
 My own evanished youth, 
 When I, like her, was young and fair, 
 Like her, untouched by worldly care, 
 
 Unscarred by broken truth. 
 
 Like her, with sunshine on my way, 
 With scented blossoms of life's May 
 
 Plucked ready for my hand ; 
 Like her, embarked on life's full tide 
 For joy's glad port, and by my side 
 
 True love at my command. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 But shadows dimmed my summer day, 
 The blossoms of my early May 
 
 Lie buried in a grave. 
 Hope's tide ebbed out afar from port, 
 And left my little bark the sport 
 
 Of fortune's wind and wave. 
 
 Ah, well ! the thrush's song is done, 
 And she steps forward in the sun, 
 
 She comes toward my bower, 
 To glad my weary, tear-dimmed eyes, 
 To \?.y before me as a prize 
 
 Her spray of hawthorn flower. 
 
 Dear heart ! she brings me more than May j 
 The sunlight of a far-off day 
 
 Shines on me from her face. 
 Her heart renews for mine the truth, 
 The hope and springtide of its youth 
 
 In all their early grace. 
 
 She looks at me with eyes of love 
 Like those the turf has lain above 
 
 For many a weary day ; 
 , God bless her I for she brings again, 
 Across a lifetime s silent pain, 
 
 My unforgotten May. 
 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 191 
 
 THE ORCHARD-LANDS OF LONG AGO. 
 
 The orchard-lands of Long Ago I 
 O drowsy winds, awake and blow 
 The snowy blossoms back to me. 
 And all the juds that used to be ! 
 Blow back along the grassy ways 
 Of truant feet, and lift the haze 
 Of happy summer from the trees 
 That trail their tresses in the seas 
 Of grain that float and overflow 
 The orchard-lands of Long Ago I 
 
 Blow back the melody that slips 
 
 In lazy laughter from the lips 
 
 That marvel much if any kiss 
 
 Is sweeter than the apple's is. 
 
 Blow back the twitter of the birds — 
 
 The lisp, the titter, and the words 
 
 Of merriment that found the shine 
 
 Of summer-time a glorious wine 
 
 That drenched the leaves that loved it so 
 
 In orchard-lands of Long Ago I 
 
192 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 O memory! alight and sing 
 Where rosy-bellied pippins cling, 
 And golden russets glint and gleam 
 As in the old Arabian dream 
 The fruits of that enchanted tree 
 The glad Aladdin robbed for me ! 
 And, drowsy winds, awake and fan 
 My blood as when it overran 
 A heart ripe as the apples grow 
 In orchard-lands of Long Ago. 
 
 James Whitcomb Riley. 
 
 LAVENDER. 
 
 How prone we are to hide and hoard 
 Each little treasure time has stored, 
 
 To tell of happy hours I 
 We lay aside with tender care 
 A tattered book, a lock of hair, 
 
 A bunch of faded flowers. 
 
 When death has led with silent hand 
 Our darlings to the " Silent Land," 
 
 Awhile we sit bereft ; 
 But time goes on ; anon we rise. 
 Our dead are buried from our eyes, 
 
 We gather what is left. 
 
 The books they loved, the songs they sang, 
 The little flute' v/hose music rang 
 
 So cheerily of old ; 
 The pictures we had watched them paint. 
 The last plucked flower, with odor faint, 
 
 That fi.iI from fingers cold. 
 
 V: •'■'. 
 
 We smooth and fold with reverent care 
 The robes they living used to wear; 
 
 And painful pulses stir 
 As o'er the relics of our dead, 
 With bitter rain of tears, we spread 
 
 Pale purple lavender. 
 
 And when we come in after years. 
 With only tender April tears 
 
 On cheeks once white with care, 
 To look on treasures put away 
 Despairing on that far-off day, 
 
 A subtile scent is there. 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 
 
 Dew-wet and fresh we gathered them, 
 These fragrant flowers ; nr«w every stem 
 
 Is bare of all its bloom : 
 Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here 
 To lend our relics, sacred, dear, 
 
 Their beautiful perfume. 
 
 The scent a^i'-les on book and lute. 
 On curl and flower, and with its mute 
 
 But eloquent appeal 
 It wins from us a deeper sob 
 For our lost dead, a sharper throb 
 
 Than we are wont to feel. 
 
 It whispers of the " long ago ; " 
 Its love, its loss, its aching woe, 
 
 And buried sorrows stir ; 
 And tears like those we shed of old 
 Roll down our cheeks as we behold 
 
 Our faded lavender. 
 
 193 
 
 WHILE WE MAY. 
 
 The hands are such dear hands ; 
 
 They are so full ; they turn at our demands 
 
 So often ; they reach out, 
 
 With trifles scarcely thought about, 
 
 So many times ; they do 
 
 So many things for me, for you — 
 
 If their fond wills mistake. 
 
 We well may bend, not break. 
 
 They are such fond, frail lips 
 
 That speak to us. Pray, if love strips 
 
 Them of discretion many times, 
 
 Or if they speak too slow, or quick, such crimes 
 We may pass by; for we may see 
 Days not far off when those small words may be 
 
 Held not as slow, or quick, or out of place, but dear, 
 
 Because the lips are no more here. 
 
 They are such dear, familiar feet that go 
 Along the path with ours, — feet fast or slow, 
 And trying to keep pace, — if they mistake. 
 Or tread upon some flower that we would take 
 
 Upon our breast, or bruise some reed, 
 
 Or crush poor Hope until it bleed, 
 We may be mute, 
 Not turning quickly to impute 
 
 13 
 
194 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Grave fault ; — for they and we 
 Have such a little way to go, — can be 
 Together such a little while along the way, 
 We will be patient while we may. 
 
 So many little faults we find. 
 We see them ; for not blind 
 Is Love. We see them, but if you and I 
 Perhaps remember them some by and l>y, 
 
 They will not be 
 Faults then — grave faults to you and me, 
 But just odd ways, — mistakes, or even less, — 
 
 Remembrances to bless. 
 Days change so many things, — yes, hours, 
 We see so differently in sun and showers. 
 
 Mistaken words to-night 
 
 May be so cherished by to-morrow's light. 
 
 We may be patient ; for we know 
 
 There 's such a little way to go. 
 
 THE BOTTOM DRAWER. 
 
 In the best chamber of the house, 
 
 Shut up in dim, uncertain light, 
 There stood an antique chest of drawers, 
 
 Of foreign wood, with brasses bright. 
 One day a woman, frail and gray, 
 
 Stepped totteringly acrosr the floor — 
 " Let in," saiu she, " the light of day, 
 
 Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer." 
 
 The girl, in all youth's loveliness, 
 
 Knelt down with eager, curious face ; 
 Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks.. 
 
 Or jewels, and of rare old lace. 
 But when the summer sunshine fell 
 
 Upon the treasures hoarded there, 
 The tears rushed to her tender eyes, 
 
 Her heart was solemn as a prayer. 
 
 " Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed. 
 
 Lifting a withered rose and palm ; 
 But on the elder face was nought 
 
 But sweet content and peaceful calm. 
 Leaning upon her staff, she gazed 
 
 Upon a baby's half-worn shoe; 
 A little frock of finest lawn ; 
 
 A hat with tiny bows of blue ; 
 
ECHOES OF THE PAST. 195 
 
 A ball made fifty years ago ; 
 
 A little glove; a tasselled cap; 
 A half-done " long division " sum ; 
 
 Somp school-books fastened with a strap. 
 She touched them all, with trembling lips — 
 
 " HcJw m :ch," she said, •' the heart can bear ! 
 Ah, Jean I I thought that I should die 
 
 The day that first I laid them there. 
 
 " But now it seems so good to know 
 
 That through these weary, troubled years 
 Their hearts have been untouched by grief. 
 
 Their eyes have been unstained by tears. 
 Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight 
 
 When earthly love is almost o'er; 
 Those children wait me in the skies, 
 
 For whom I locked that sacred drawer." 
 
 Mary A. Parr. 
 
PART VII. 
 
 3Pn tfte €toilig?)t» 
 
W/ieu the hours of Day arc numbered, 
 And the voices of the N{^ht 
 
 Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
 To a holy, calm delight; 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted. 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful firelight 
 Dance upon the parlor -wall; 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit vie once more. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 4 i I H 
 
PART VII. 
 
 3^n tt^t €U3tIt0{)t* 
 
 TWILIGHT'S HOUR. 
 
 The sunlight on a waveless sea — 
 The softened radiance fadcth slowly ; 
 
 The folded flower, the niist-crowncd tree, 
 Proclaim the gathering twilight holy. 
 
 It is the hour when passion bows; 
 
 A solemn stillness round us lingers; 
 And on our wildly throbbing brows 
 
 We feel the touch of angel fingers. 
 
 It is the hour when lovers fond 
 
 (For love its native air is breathing) 
 
 Drape with fair hopes life's drear beyond, 
 Gay garlands for the future wreathing. 
 
 It is the hour when in far land 
 The wanderer, tired of ceaseless roaming, 
 
 Longs for the clasp of kindred hand, 
 
 And the dear home enwrapt in gloaming. 
 
 It is the hour when mankind hears. 
 Amid earth's mingled moans and laughter. 
 
 Chords which will svvfell when unborn years 
 Are buried in the great hereafter. 
 
 Chambers s Journal. W. F. E. 
 
 THE AFTERMATH. 
 
 The glamour of the after-light 
 Lay clear and fair along the sky. 
 
 And made the pathway eerie bright 
 As home we wandered — thou and I. 
 
200 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The meadow mists were lying low, 
 
 A shadow held the river-side, 
 The water took the western glow, 
 
 And peace, gray peace, spread far and wide. 
 
 A. sober-heartedness was ours — 
 So still the earth, the sky so strange ; 
 
 And we had given in sunny hours 
 Our youthful hearts their widest range. 
 
 We liri/rered in the meadow path, 
 Touched by the twilight's silent spell, 
 
 While from the sun's fleet aftermath 
 A subtile glory rose and fell. 
 
 Dim, wistful thoughts within us grew, 
 
 Forebodings >f the life to be, • 
 
 Till with a sudden thrill we knew 
 Time's touci; of immortality. 
 
 For all the wonder and the awe, 
 
 Far-widening within the west. 
 Seemed with a mystic power to draw 
 
 Our hearts into its kindly rest. 
 
 Yet still it faded, faded fast, 
 
 And night crept up the eastern slope ; 
 But o'er our lives a strength had passed, 
 
 And left us with a larger hope. 
 
 So home we wandered — thou and I — 
 That night, sweet wife, so long ago, 
 
 And still we watc'' the western sky, 
 And strengthen in its mystic glow. 
 
 Good Words. 
 
 James Hendry. 
 
 TWILIGHT DREAMS. 
 
 They come in the quiet twilight hour, 
 
 When the weary day is done, 
 And the quick light leaps from the glowing heaps 
 
 Of wood on the warm hearthstone. 
 
 When the household sounds have died away, 
 
 And the rooms are silent all. 
 Save the clock's brief tick, and the sudden click 
 
 Of the embero as they fall ; 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 20I 
 
 They come, those dreams of the twilight hour, 
 To me with their noiseless tread, 
 
 A tearful band by the guiding hand 
 Of a grave-eyed spirit led. 
 
 There is no voice within the hall, 
 
 No footstep on the floor ; 
 The children's laughter is hushed, there is 
 
 No hand at the parlor door. 
 
 Like fingers tapping eagerly 
 
 Against the snuttered frame, 
 Where the trailing rose its long branch throws, 
 
 Beat the great drops of rain. 
 
 But my heart heeds not the rustling leaves, 
 
 Nor the rain-fall's fitful beat, 
 Nor the wind's low sigh as it hurries by 
 
 On its pauseless path and fleet ; 
 
 For now in the dusk they gather round. 
 
 The visions of the past. 
 Arising slow in the dim red glow 
 
 By the burning pine-brands cast. 
 
 My brow is calm as with the touch 
 
 Of an angel's passing wing ; 
 They breathe no word, yet my soul is stirred 
 
 By the messages they bring. 
 
 Some in their grasp impalpable 
 Bear Eden's ci'.itured flowers, 
 That sprang in gloom from the tear-bathed tomb 
 ' Of hope's long-buried hours. 
 
 Some from the font of memory, 
 
 Lasting, and pure, and deep, 
 Bring waters clear, though many a year 
 
 Has saddened their first fresh sweep; 
 
 And some in their hands of shadow bear, 
 From the shrine of prayerful thougiu, 
 
 A fragrance blest to the stricken breast. 
 With balm and healing fraught. 
 
 The night wears on, the hearth burns low, 
 
 The dreams have passed away ; 
 But the heart and brow are strcnghtened now 
 
 For the toil of coming day. 
 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
202 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 u V : 
 
 YEARNING. 
 
 Over the west the glory dies away, 
 
 Faint rose-flecks gleaming in the darkening sky; 
 
 And the low sounds that mark the close of day 
 Rise up from wood and upland — rise and die ; 
 
 Soft silence falls o'er meadow, hill, and grove, 
 
 And in the hush I want you, oh, my love. 
 
 In the gay radiance of the morning hour, 
 In the warm brooding glory of the noon, 
 
 When man and Nature, in their prime of power, 
 With the day's fulness blend in eager tune, 
 
 The rush of life forbids the pulse to move 
 
 That now, in yearning passion, wants you, love. 
 
 Wants you to watch the crimson glow and fade 
 
 Through the great branches of the broadening lime ; 
 
 Wants you to feel the soft, gray, quiet shade 
 Lap the tired world in blessed eventime ; 
 
 Wants you to whisper : " Come, your power to prove, 
 
 The gloaming needs its angel ; coaie, my love." 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 X\ V 
 
 THE MOTHER'S BLESSING. 
 
 There in her high-backed chair she sits, 
 
 Sad-eyed dame with the silver hair ; -^ 
 
 The shadows lengthen, the daylight flits, 
 And she seems to listen, as still she knits. 
 For the sound of the step on the silent stair. 
 
 The lamps flash out in the twilight street, 
 And many a neighboring casement gleams, 
 
 A beacon of home to hurrying feet ; 
 
 But the white-haired dame in the high-backed seat 
 Heeds them not, as she knits and dreams — 
 
 Dreams of a boy, long years ago. 
 Clasped her neck on a summer day, 
 
 Begged her blessing, kissed her, and so 
 
 Fled with the speed of a hunted doe 
 Down to the sea and sailed away I 
 
 A boy with an eye as blue and bright 
 
 As the cloudless noon of a tropic sky; 
 A fair haired lad, and his heart was right — 
 Was it ten ? Yes, ten long years to-night I 
 Shall I bless him again before I die ? 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 " Here at my knee his prayer he said : 
 
 ' Our Father, all hallowed be thy name ; 
 Give us this day our daily bread,' 
 Passing my hand o'er his golden head, 
 While oft the tears in his blue eyes came." 
 
 Hark ! a step on the silent stair ! 
 
 A soft, quick step, and a breathing light ! 
 A form kneels low by the high-backed chair, 
 And lo ! in the curls of her boy's fair hair 
 
 The mother's fingers are twined to-night. 
 
 Is it a dream ? or can it be, 
 
 This tall man, with the beard of gold. 
 That kneels so low by his mother's knee, 
 Is the blue-eyed boy that fled to sea 
 
 That sunny morn in the day of old ? 
 
 Yes, it is he, for the joyful tears 
 
 Drop from her eyes in a holy rain ; 
 "Our Father" anew from his lips she hears. 
 And the mother's blessing of bygone years 
 Has brought her prodigal home again. 
 
 203 
 
 -• — 
 
 ELS WITH A. 
 
 Elswitha knitteth the stocking blue 
 
 In the flickering firelight's glow; 
 Dyed are her hands in its ruddy hue, 
 And it glints on the shining needles too, 
 
 And flushes her cap of snow. 
 
 Elswitha dreameth a waking dream, 
 
 As busy her fingers ply; 
 And it lights her eye with its olden gleam, 
 For the world seems now as it used to seem. 
 
 And the things far off are nigh I 
 
 The things far off in the lapse of years, 
 
 Dead faces and loves outgrown ; 
 Oh, many a form at her side appears, 
 And many a voice in her soul she hears. 
 
 And many a long-hushed tone. 
 
 For Memory walks through her halls to-night, 
 
 A torch in her lifted hand ; 
 And lo ! at the sound of her footsteps light 
 They shake them free from the dust and blight. 
 
 And trooping around her stand. 
 
■ I 
 
 ll I 
 
 204 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Bright curls of auburn and braids of brown, 
 
 With the sunlight sifted through, 
 And foreheads white as the hawthorn's crown, 
 And garlands fresh as when last thrown down, 
 
 Ay, fresher in scent and hue ! 
 
 They come from the aisles of the buried past. 
 
 From the faded long ago. 
 From sepulchres old and dim and vast. 
 They come with their grave-clothes from them cast, 
 
 To stand 'in the firelight glow. 
 
 And weird is the charm they weave, I trow — 
 
 Elswitha is young and fair, 
 Gone are the furrows and tear-stains now. 
 Gone are the wrinkles from hand and brow, 
 
 The silver from shining hair. 
 
 Gone are the years with their heavy weight 
 
 (And heavy the years had grown). 
 For Love hath entered the lists with Fate, 
 And Memory needeth not name nor date, 
 
 For Memory knoweth her own. 
 
 Now haste thee, Dame, for the fire is low. 
 
 And the good man waits his tea ; 
 Back to their tombs do the phantoms go, 
 And dark and deep do the shadows grow, 
 But Elswitha smileth — her dream to know, 
 
 Not a dream — but a prophecy. 
 Maritime Monthly. Mary Barry, 
 
 TIRED, 
 
 Whp:n the day with all its splendor, all its beauty, all its light, 
 Fades away, and leaves us standing in the shadow of the night, 
 And we turn with wistful longing to the purple fields that lie 
 Where the sunlight in departing leaves its glory in the sky; 
 Piling up the clouds like bastions full of fire along the west. 
 And the early star of evening gleams upon their fading crest, — 
 Then we feel that something brighter, fairer still lies out of sight. 
 Where the beauty and the glory will not fade away in night ; 
 And that somewhere in the distance, in the beautiful beyond. 
 Our beloved and departed hold us still by some sweet bond ; 
 And across the gold and crimson of the evening's changeful 
 
 track 
 We can almost hear the music of their voices floating back. 
 
 Tell me, dreamers, say, what is it that we feel but cannot know? 
 Why these cravings, half of rapture, half of sorrow, haunt us so ? 
 What these pictures half immortal, ne'er described by brush or 
 
 word, 
 By which all the humun spirit of a mortal soul is stirred ? 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 205 
 
 Tell me, prophet, do they lead us to the looked-for " by-and-by." 
 Where no mortal eye has parted back the shades of prophecy ? 
 Oh, ye dreamers! oh, ye prophets I what your dreams and 
 
 prophecies. 
 What to me the light and fading of the ever-changing skies, 
 What to me the glorious beauty in the cloud-land in the west, 
 While with every heart-beat moaning for the priceless boon of 
 
 Rest I 
 
 THE LOST SHEEP. 
 
 De massa ob de sheepfol', 
 
 Dat guard de sheepfol' bin. 
 Look out in de gloomerin' meadows 
 
 Whar de long night rain begin — 
 So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd, 
 
 " Is my sheep, is day all come in ? " 
 Oh, den says de hirelin' shepa'd, 
 
 " Dey 's some, dey 's black and thin, 
 And some, dey 's po' ol' wedda's. 
 
 But de res' dey 's all brung in, — 
 
 But de res' dey 's all brung in." 
 
 Den de massa ob de sheepfol', 
 
 Dat guard de sheepfol' bin. 
 Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows 
 
 Whar de long night rain begin — 
 So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol', 
 
 Callin' sof, " Come in, come in I " 
 
 Callin' sof, " Come in, come in 1 " 
 
 Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows, 
 
 Tro' de col' night rain and win'. 
 And up tro' de gloomerin' rain-paf, 
 
 Whar de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin, 
 De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' 
 
 Dey all comes gadderin' in. 
 De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol' 
 
 Dey all comes gadderin' in. 
 
 Sally Pratt McLean. 
 
 WHEN THE COWS COME HOME. 
 
 T. 
 
 With klingle, klangle, klingle, 
 Way down the dusty dingle. 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, 
 The airy tinklings come and go, 
 
\ 
 
 206 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Like chimings from some far-off tower, 
 Or patterings of an April shower 
 That makes the daisiec grow — 
 
 Ko-kling, ko klang, koklinglelingle, 
 Way clown the darkening dirgle 
 The cows come slowly home. 
 
 ir. 
 
 With jingle, jangle, jingle, 
 Soft sounds that sweetly mingle, 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 Malime, and Pearl, and Florimel, 
 DeKamp, Redrose, and Gretchen Schell, 
 Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue 
 Across the fields I hear loo-oo, 
 And clang hor silver bell. 
 
 Go-ling, go-lang, golinglelingle, 
 With faint far sounds that mingle, 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 And mother-songs of long-gone years. 
 And baby joys, and childish fears, 
 And youthful hopes, and youthful fears, 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 1^ » 
 
 HI. 
 
 With ringle, rangle, ringle, 
 By twos and threes and single, 
 The cows are coming home. 
 Through the violet air we see the town. 
 And the summer sun a-slipping down ; 
 The maple in the hazel glade 
 Throws down the path a longer shade, 
 And the hills are growing brown. 
 To-ring, to-rang, toringleringle. 
 By threes and fours and single, 
 The cows come slowly home. 
 The same sweet sound of wordless psalm, 
 The same sweet June-day rest and calm. 
 The same ^'weet scent of bud and balm. 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 I'l 
 
 ;S 
 
 IV. 
 
 With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle. 
 Through fern and periwinkle. 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 A-loitering in the checkered stream, 
 Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, 
 Starine, Peachbloom, and Phcebe Phyllis 
 Stand knee deep in the cv^amy lilies. 
 In a drowsy dream, 
 
 ' %\' 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 20 7 
 
 To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle, 
 
 O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle 
 
 The cows come slowly home ; 
 And up through memory's deep ravine 
 Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, 
 And the crescent of the silver queen, 
 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 With a klingle, klangle, klingle, 
 
 With a loo-oo, and moo-00, and jingle, 
 
 The cows are coming home ; 
 And over there on Merlin hill. 
 Hear the plaintive cry of the whippoorwill ; 
 The dew-drops lie on the tangled vines, 
 And over the poplars Venus shines ; 
 
 And over the silent mill, 
 
 Ko-Iing, ko-lang, kolinglelingle, - _ 
 
 With a ting-a-ling and jingle, 
 
 The cows come slowly home. 
 Let down the bars ; let in the train 
 Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain; 
 For dear old times come back again 
 
 When the cows come home. 
 
 Mrs. Agnes E. Mitchell. 
 
 IF WE KNEW; OR, BLESSINGS OF TO-DAV 
 
 If we knew the woe and heart-ache 
 
 That await us on the road ; 
 If our lips could taste the wormwood, 
 
 If our backs could feel the load ; 
 Would we waste to-day in wishing 
 
 For a time that ne'er may be? 
 Would we wait in such impatience 
 
 For our ships to come from sea } 
 
 If we knew the baby fingers 
 
 Pressed against the window-pane 
 Would be cold and stiff to-morrow, — 
 
 Never trouble us again ; 
 Would the bright eyes of our darling 
 
 Catch the frown upon our brow .'' 
 Would the print of baby fingers 
 
 Vex us then as they do now ? 
 
 Ah I those little ice-cold fingers. 
 How they point our memories back 
 
 To the hasty words and ections 
 Strewn alo»ig the backward track ! 
 
I 
 
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 208 THE HUMBLE J! POETS. 
 
 How tlio^a little hands remind us, ' 
 
 As in snowy grace they lie, 
 Not to scatter thorns, but roses, 
 
 For the reaping by and by. 
 
 Strange, we never prize the music 
 
 Till the swe'-t-vulced birds have flown ; 
 Strange, that we should slight the violets 
 
 Till the lovely flowers are gone ; 
 Strange, that summer skies and sunshine 
 
 Never seem one half so fair 
 As when winter's snowy pinions 
 
 Shake the v'hite down in the air. 
 
 Lips from which the seal of silence 
 
 None but God can roll away 
 Never blossomed in such beauty ^ 
 
 As pdorns the mouth to-day ; 
 And sweet words that freight our memory 
 
 With their beautiful perfume 
 Come to us in sweeter accents 
 
 Through the portals of the tomb. 
 
 Let us gather up the sunbeams 
 
 Lying all around our path ; 
 Let us keep the wheat and roses, 
 
 Casting out the thorns and chaff ; 
 Let us find our sweetest comfort 
 
 In the blessings of to-day, 
 With a patient hand removing 
 
 All the briers from the way. 
 
 The Hearthstone. Mrs. May Riley Smith. 
 
 GROWING OLD. 
 
 Is it parting with the roundness 
 
 Of the smoothly moulded cheek ? 
 Is it losing from the dimples 
 
 Half the flashing joy they speak? 
 Is it fading of the lustre 
 
 From the wavy, golden hair ? 
 Is it finding on the forehead 
 
 Graven hnes of thought and care ? 
 
 Is it dropping, as the rose-leaves 
 Drop their sweetness overblown. 
 
 Household names that once were dearer, 
 More familiar than our own? 
 
 V' I 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 209 
 
 Is it meeting on the pathway 
 Faces strange and glances cold, 
 
 While the soul with moan and shiver 
 Whispe*"^^ sadly, " Growing old " ? 
 
 Is it frowning at the folly 
 
 Of the ardent hopes of youth ? 
 Is it cynic melancholy 
 
 At the rarity of truth ? 
 Is it disbelief m loving ? 
 
 Selfish hate, or miser's greed ? 
 Then such blight of Na^^ure's noblest 
 
 Is a " growing old " indeed. 
 
 But the silver thread that i ' ineth 
 
 Whitely in the thinning tress, 
 And the pallor where the bloom was, 
 
 Need not tell of bitterness : 
 And the brow's more earnest writing 
 
 Where it once was marble fair, 
 May be but the spirit's tracing 
 
 Of the peace of answered prayer. 
 
 If the smile has gone in deeper, 
 
 And the tears more quickly start, 
 Both together meet in music 
 
 Low and tender in the heart ; 
 And in others' joy and gladness. 
 
 When the life can find its own, 
 Surely angels learn to listen 
 
 To the sweetness of the tone. 
 
 Nothing lost of all we planted 
 
 In the time of budding leaves ; 
 Only some things bound in bundles 
 
 And set by — our precious sheaves ; 
 Only treasure kept in safety, 
 
 Out of reach and out of rust. 
 Till we clasp it grown the richer 
 
 Through the glory of our trust. 
 
 On the gradual sloping pathway, 
 
 As the passing years decline. 
 Gleams a golden love-light falling 
 
 Far from upper heights divine. 
 And the shadows from that brightness 
 
 Wrap them softly in their fold. 
 Who unto celestial \»hiteness 
 
 Walk, by way of growing old. 
 
 14 
 
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 210 r//^ HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A WOM/aN'S COMPLAINT. 
 
 I KNOW that deep within your heart of hearts 
 You hold me shrined apart from common things, 
 
 ^i.nd that my step, my voice, can bring i. 
 
 A gladness that no other presence b 
 
 And yet, dear love, through all the weary days 
 You never speak one word of tenderness, 
 
 Nor stroke my hair, nor softly clasp my hand 
 Within your own in loving, mute caress. 
 
 You think, perhaps, I should be all content 
 To know so well the loving place I hold 
 
 Within your life, and so you do not dream 
 How much I long to hear the story told. 
 
 You cannot know, when we two sit alone. 
 
 And tranquil thoughts within your mind are stirred, 
 
 My heart is crying iike a tired child 
 For one fond look, one gentle, loving word. 
 
 It may be when your eyes look into mine 
 You only say, " How dear she is to me I " 
 
 Oh, could I read it in your softened glance. 
 How radiant this plain old world would be I 
 
 Perhaps, sometimes, you breathe a secret prayer 
 That choicest blessings unto me be given ; 
 
 But if you said aloud, " God bless thee, dear ! " 
 I should not ask a greater boon from Heaven. 
 
 I weary sometimes of the rugged way ; 
 
 Hut should you say, " Through thee my life is sweet," 
 The dreariest desert that our path could cross 
 
 Would suddenly grow green beneath my feet. 
 
 'T is not the boundless waters ocean holds 
 That give refreshment to the thirsty flowers. 
 
 But just the drops that, rising to the skies, 
 From thence descend in softly falling showers. 
 
 What matter that our granaries are filled 
 With all the richest harvest's golden stores, 
 
 If we who own them cannot enter in, 
 
 But famished stand before the close barred doors ? 
 
 And so 't is sad that those who should be rich 
 In that true love which crowns our earthly lot. 
 
 Go praying with white lips from day to day 
 For love's sweet tokens, and receive them not. 
 
 The Advance. 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT, 
 
 21 1 
 
 SONGS IN SLEEP. 
 
 If I could frame for you in cunning words 
 The songs my heart in sleep is often singing, 
 
 You 'd fancy, love, an orchestra of birds 
 
 Upon their quivering throats the dawn were bringing 
 
 Now in some wild, weird flush of melody 
 I 'd feign the skylark, with his music sifting 
 
 The final films of nightshade from the lea, 
 And all the waking world to heaven uplifting. 
 
 Then, ere the lengthening liquid solo went — 
 In skylark fashion — out of hearing o'er us, 
 
 I 'd mock with skill, as sweet as my intent, 
 Thrustle and blackbird coming in for chorus. 
 
 There 's not a strain of joy the birds could sing, 
 I could not set to words that I 've b«en dreaming ; 
 
 But when I wake, alas I they all take wing, 
 And leave of music but the empty seeming. 
 
 Believe me, love, I sing to you, in sleep, 
 
 Songs that if voiced would waken you to pleasure ; 
 
 Would you could hear them in your dreams, and keep 
 Their inner meaning, though you missed the jneasure. 
 
 FIFTY YEARS APART. 
 
 Thev sit in the winter gloaming. 
 And the fire burns bright between ; 
 
 One has passed seventy summers, 
 And the other just seventeen. 
 
 They rest in a happy silence 
 As the shadows dee]:)en fast ; 
 
 One lives in a coming future. 
 And one in a long, long past. 
 
 Each dreams of a rush of music. 
 And a question whispered low ; 
 
 One will hear it this evening, 
 One heard it long ago. 
 
 Each dreams of a loving husband 
 Whose brave hea t is hers alone; 
 
 For one the joy is coming. 
 For one the joy has flown. 
 
212 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 \ 
 
 Each dreams of a life of gladness 
 Spent under the sunny skies; 
 
 And both the hope and the memory 
 Shine in the happy eyes. 
 
 Who knows which dream is the brightest ? 
 
 And who knows which is the best? 
 The sorrow and joy are mingled, 
 
 But only the end is rest. 
 Parlor Magazine. 
 
 I 
 
 A WOMAN'S WISH. 
 
 Would I were lying in a field of clover, 
 Of clover cool and soft, and soft and sweet. 
 
 With dusky clouds in deep skies hanging over, ' 
 
 And scented silence at my head and feet. 
 
 Just for one hoijr to slip the leash of worry 
 In eager haste from Thought's impatient neck. 
 
 And watch it coursing — in its heedless hurry 
 Disdaining Wisdom's whistles, Duty's beck. 
 
 Ah, it were sweet where clover clumps are meeting, 
 
 And daisies hiding, so to hide and rest; 
 No sound except my own heart's steady beating. 
 
 Rocking itself to sleep within my breast, — 
 
 Just to lie there, filled with the deeper breathing 
 That comes of listening to a free bird's song ! 
 
 Our souls require at times this full unsheathing — 
 All swords will rust if scabbard-kept too long. 
 
 And I am tired ! — so tired of rigid duty, 
 
 So tired of all my tired hands find to do ! 
 I yearn, I faint, for some of life's free beauty, 
 
 Its loose beads with no straight string running through. 
 
 Ay, laugh, if laugh you will, at my crude speech. 
 But women sometimes die of such a greed, — 
 
 Die for the small joys held beyond their reach. 
 And the assurance they have all they need. 
 
 Mary A. Townsend. 
 
 AT THE PIANO. 
 
 Play on! play on I As softly glides 
 The low refrain, I seem, I seem 
 
 To float, to float, on golden tides 
 By sunlit isles, where life and dream 
 
 :, ■ 
 
IN THE TWILIGHT. 
 
 Are one, are one ; and hope and hliss 
 Move hand in hand, and, thrilling, kiss 
 
 'Neath howcry l)looms 
 
 In twilight glooms, 
 And love is life and life is love. 
 
 riay on! play on I As higher rise 
 The lifted strains, I seem, I seem 
 To mount, to mount, through roseate skies. 
 Through drifted clouds and golden gleam. 
 To realms, to realms of thought and fire, 
 Where angels walk and souls aspire, 
 And sorrows come but as the night 
 That brings a star for our delight. 
 
 Play on 1 play on I The spirit fails, 
 
 The star grows dim, the glory pales. 
 
 The depths are roused — the depths, and oh I 
 
 The heart that wakes, the hopes that glow ! 
 
 The depths are roused, their billows call 
 
 The soul from heights to slip and fall ; 
 
 To slip and fall and faint, and be 
 
 Made part of their immensity ; 
 
 To slip from heaven; to fall and find 
 
 In love the only perfect mind. 
 
 To slip and fall and faint, and be 
 
 Lost, drowned within this melody, 
 
 As life is lost, and thought, in thee. 
 
 Ah, sweet, art thou the star, — the star 
 That draws my r,oul afar, afar } 
 The voice the silvery tide on which 
 I float to island rare and rich ? 
 Thy love the ocean, deep and strong. 
 In which my hopes and being long 
 To sink and faint and fall away ? 
 I cannot know ; I cannot say. 
 Play on 1 play on I 
 
 213 
 
 A TWILIGHT REVERIE. 
 
 The fire in the west burns low ; 
 
 A fading gleam of light 
 Only remains of the crimson glow 
 That made half heaven so bright ; 
 And the weary day, in her shroud of gray. 
 Sighs out her life on the breast of night. 
 
 The fire on my hearth burns low ; 
 
 Beside the glimmering light 
 I dream of that sunset long ago 
 
 When all my heaven seemed bright. 
 
214 "^fiP- HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 But since that day, with each sunset ray 
 I 've longed to die in the gloom ol night. 
 
 The fire of my life burns low ; 
 
 And through the darkening night 
 Strange, shadowy shapes ilit to and fro, 
 Awaiting my spirit's flight. 
 And these shadowy things show glistening wings 
 To bear me away on the morning light. 
 
 MY CIGARETTE. 
 
 My cigarette ! The amulet 
 
 That charms afar unrest and sorrow ; 
 The magic wand that far beyond 
 
 To-day can conjure up to-morrow. 
 Like love's desire, thy crown of fire 
 
 So softly with the twilight blending, 
 And ah I meseems, a poet's dreams 
 
 Are in thy wreaths of smoke ascending 
 
 My cigarette ! Can I forget 
 
 How Kate and I, in sunny weather, 
 Sat in the shade the elm-tree made 
 
 And rolled the fragrant weed together ? 
 I at her side beatified, 
 
 To hold ar.a guide her fingers willing ; 
 She rolling slow the paper's snovv, 
 
 Putting my heart in with the filling. 
 
 My cigarette I I see her yet. 
 
 The white smoke from her red lips curling. 
 Her dreaming eyes, her soft replies, 
 
 Her gentle sighs, her laughicr purling I 
 Ah, dainty roll, whose parting soul 
 
 Ebbs out in many a snowy billow, 
 I, too, would burn if I might earn 
 
 Upon her lips so soft a pillow I 
 
 Ah, cigarette ! The gay coquette 
 
 Has long forgot the flames she lighted, 
 
 And you and I unthinking by 
 
 Alike are thrown, alike are slighted. 
 
 The darkness gathers fast without, 
 A rain-drop on my window plashes; 
 
 My cigarette and heart are out, 
 , And nought is left me but the ashes. 
 
 Harvard Crimson, Jan. 9, 18S0. C. F. LUMMIS, '81. 
 
vings 
 
 PART VIII. 
 
 I^ome and fitt^ibt. 
 
 MIS, '8l. 
 
Bttt in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, 
 
 And for a moment clear, 
 Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises 
 And passes in a tear. 
 
 Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 
 
 Of uneventful toil, 
 Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 
 
 Abarve a peaceful soil. 
 
 Bret Harte. 
 
PART VIII. 
 
 I^ome anb fitt^H^t. 
 
 AT HOME. 
 
 Where burns the fireside brightest, 
 
 Cheering the social breast ? 
 Where beats the fond heart b'ghtest, 
 
 Its humblest hopes possessed ? 
 Where is the hour of sadness, 
 
 With meek-eyed patience borne, 
 Worth more than those of gladness, 
 
 Which mirth's gay cheeks adorn ? 
 Pleasure is marked by fleetness, » 
 
 To those who ever roam ; 
 While grief itself has sweetness 
 
 At home — sweet home. 
 
 Bernard Barton. 
 
 FORTUNE MY FOE. 
 
 " Aim not too high at things beyond thy reach," * 
 Nor give the rein to reckless thought or speech. 
 Is it not better all thy life to bide 
 Lord of thyself, than all the earth beside ? 
 
 Thus if high Fortune far from thee take wing. 
 Why shouldst thou envy counsellor or king } 
 Purple or homespun, — wherefore make ado 
 What coat may cover, if the heart be true ? 
 
 Then, if at last thou gather wealth at will, 
 Thou most shalt honor Him who grants it still ; 
 Since he who best doth poverty endure, 
 Should prove, when rich, best brother to the poor. 
 
 The Spectator. Alfred Percival Graves. 
 
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 218 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS. 
 
 'T IS home where'er the heart is, 
 
 Where'er its loved ones dwell. 
 In cities or in cottages, 
 
 Thronged haunts or mossy dell. 
 The heart 's a rover ever, 
 
 And thus, on wave and wild, 
 The maiden with her lover walks, 
 
 The mother with her child. 
 
 'T is bright where'er the heart is ; 
 
 Its fairy spell can bring 
 Fresh fountains to the wilderness, 
 
 And to the desert spring. 
 Green isles are in the ocean 
 
 O'er which affection glides, 
 A haven on each sunny shore, 
 
 When love 's the sun that guides. 
 
 'T is free where'er the heart is : 
 
 Nor chains nor dungeons dim 
 May check the mind's aspiring thought. 
 
 The spirit's pealing hymn. 
 The heart gives life its beauty.. 
 
 Its glory, and its powers ; 
 'T is sunlight to its rippling stream, 
 
 And soft dew to its flowers. 
 
 HOME-COMING. 
 
 When brothers leave the old hearthstone 
 
 And go, each one, a separate way, 
 We think, as we go on alone 
 
 Along our pathway, day by day, 
 Of olden scenes and faces dear, 
 
 Of voices that we miss so much ; 
 And memory brings the absent near, 
 
 Until we almost feel the touch 
 Of loving hands, ;;ad hear once more 
 
 The dear old voices ringing out, 
 As in that happy time of yore, 
 
 Ere life had caugnt a shade of doubt. 
 
 If you should place against your ear 
 The shell v"" plundered from the sea, 
 
 Down in its hidden heart you 'd hear 
 A low and tender melody; 
 
.'.f'^ 
 
 HOME AND FIRESIDE. 
 
 A murmur of the restless tide, 
 
 A yearning born of memory ; 
 And though its yearnings be denied, 
 
 The shell keeps singing of the sea. 
 And sometimes when old memories throng 
 
 Like ghosts the memories of our soul, 
 We feel the yearning, deep and strong, 
 
 A longing we cannot control, 
 To lay our care and business by. 
 
 And seek the old familiar ways. 
 And cross home's threshold, and sit down 
 
 With comrades of our earlier days. 
 
 For though our paths are sundered wide, 
 
 We feel that we are brothers yet. 
 And by and by we turn aside 
 
 From hurrying care and worldly fret, 
 And each one wanders back to meet 
 
 His brother by the hearth of home ; 
 I think the meeting is more sweet 
 
 liecause so far and wide we roam. 
 We cross the lengthening bridge of years. 
 
 Meet outstretched hands and faces true ; 
 The silent eloquence of tears 
 
 Speaks welcome that no words can do. 
 
 But ah, the meeting holds regret ! 
 
 The sad, sad story, often told, 
 Of hands that ours have often met, 
 
 Close folded under churchyard mould ; 
 Of eyes that smiled into our own, 
 
 Closed in the dreamless sleep of God ; 
 A sweeter rest was never known 
 
 Than theirs, beneath the grave's white sod. 
 A tender thought for them to-night, 
 
 A tribute tear from memory ; 
 Beneath their covering of white 
 
 Sweet may their dreamless slumber be. 
 
 219 
 
 A SONG FOR THE HOT WINDS. 
 
 Oh for a breath o' the moorlands, 
 
 A whiff o' the caller air I 
 For the smell o' the flowerin' heather 
 
 My very heart is sair. 
 
 Oh for the sound o' the burnies 
 
 That whimple to the sea ; 
 For the sight o' the browning bracken 
 
 On the hillside waving free I 
 
! ■ 
 
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 I, 
 
 
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 II 
 
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 \ 
 
 220 TI/E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Oh for the blue lochs cradled 
 
 In the arnis o' mountains gray, 
 That smile as they shadow the drifting clouds 
 
 A' the bonny summer day I 
 
 Oh for the tops o' mountains 
 
 White wi' eternal snaw ; ' 
 
 For the mists that drift across the lift ; 
 For the strong east winds that blaw I 
 
 I am sick o' the blazing sunshine 
 That burns through the weary hours, 
 
 O' the gaudy birds singing never a song, 
 O' beautiful scentless flowers. 
 
 I wud gie a' the southern glory 
 
 For a taste o' a good saut wind, ; 
 
 Wi' a road ower the bonny sea before, « 
 
 And a track o' foam behind. ' • ' • . 
 
 Auld Scotland may be rugged, 
 
 Her mountains stern and bare ; 
 But, oh for a breath o' her moorlands, 
 
 A whiff o' her caller air 1 
 
 Harriet Miller Davidson. 
 Adelaide, Australia., Jan. 13, 1872. 
 
 THE SERMON IN A STOCKING. 
 
 The supper is over, the hearth is swept, 
 
 And in the wood-fire's glow 
 The children cluster to hear a tale 
 
 Of that time so long ago. 
 
 When grandmamma's hair was golden brown. 
 
 And the warm blood came and went 
 O'er the face that could scarce have been sweeter then 
 
 Than now in its rich content. 
 
 The face is wrinkled and careworn now, 
 
 And the golden hair is gray ; 
 But the light that shone in the young girl's eyes 
 
 Has never gone away. 
 
 And her needles catch the fire's light 
 
 As in and out they go. 
 With the clicking music that grandma loves. 
 
 Shaping the stocking's toe. 
 
HOME AND FIRESIDE. 
 
 221 
 
 AVIDSON. 
 
 And the waking children love it too, 
 
 For they know the stocking sor9; 
 Brings many a talt to grandma's mind 
 
 Which they shall hear ere long. 
 
 But it brings no story of olden time 
 
 To grandma's heart to-night, — 
 Only a ditty quaint and short 
 
 Is sung by the needles bright. 
 
 " Life is a stocking," grandma says, 
 
 " And yours is just begun ; 
 But I am knitting the toe of mine, 
 
 And my work is almost done. 
 
 " With merry hearts we begin to knit, 
 
 And the ribbing is almost play ; 
 Some are gay-colored, and some are white, 
 
 And some are ashen gray. 
 
 " But most are made of many a hue, 
 
 With many a stitch set wrong, 
 And many a row to be sadly ripped 
 
 Ere the whole is fair and strong. 
 
 "There are long plain stretches without a break. 
 
 That in youth are hard to bear ; 
 And many a weary tear is dropped 
 
 As we fashion the heel with care. 
 
 " But the saddest, happiest time is that, 
 
 We court and yet would shun, 
 When our Heavenly Father breaks the thread, 
 
 And says our work is done." 
 
 And the children come to say good-night, 
 With tears in their bright young eyes ; 
 
 While in grandma's lap, with broken thread. 
 The finished stocking lies. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S HANDS. 
 
 Such beautiful, beautiful hands I 
 
 They 're neither white nor small ; 
 And you, I know, would scarcely think 
 
 That they were fair at all. 
 I 've looked on hands whose form and hue 
 
 A sculptor's dream might be ; 
 Yet are those wrinkled, aged hands 
 
 Most beautiful to me. 
 
222 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Such beautiful, beautiful hands ! 
 
 Though heart were weary and sad, 
 These patient hands kept toiling on, 
 
 That the children might be glad; 
 I always weep, as looking back 
 
 To childhood's distant day, 
 I think how those hands rested not, 
 
 When mine were at their play. 
 
 Such beautiful, beautiful hands ! 
 
 They 're growing feeble now. 
 For time and pain have left their mark 
 
 On hands, and heart, and brow. 
 Alas! alas! the nearing time, 
 
 And the sad, sad day to me. 
 
 When 'neath the daisies, out of sight, 
 
 These hands will folded be. 
 
 t 
 
 But oh, beyond this shadow land. 
 
 Where all is bright and fair, 
 I know full well these dear old hands , 
 
 Will palms of victory bear ; 
 Where crystal streams through endless years 
 
 Flow over golden sands. 
 And where the old grow young again, 
 
 I '11 clasp my mother's hands. 
 
 THE EXILES. 
 
 ;i[ 
 
 The sea at the crag's base brightens, 
 
 And shivers in waves of gold; 
 And overhead, in its vastness. 
 
 The fathomless blue is rolled. 
 There comes no wind from the water, 
 
 There shines no sail on the main, 
 And not a cloudlet to shadow 
 
 The earth with its fleecy grain. 
 Oh, give in return for this glory. 
 
 So passionate, warm, and still. 
 The mist of a highland valley — 
 
 The breeze from a Scottish hill ! 
 
 Day after day glides slowh', 
 
 Ever and ever the same, — 
 Seas of intensest splendor. 
 
 Airs which smite hot as a flame; 
 Birds of imperial plumage. 
 
 Palms straight as columns of fire, 
 Flutter and glitter around me. 
 
 But not so my soul's desire. 
 
HOME AND FIRESIDE. 
 
 I long for the song of the laverock, 
 The cataract's leap and flash, 
 
 The sweep of the red deer's antlers, 
 The gleam of the mountain ash. 
 
 Only when night 's quiescent. 
 
 And peopled with alien stars, 
 Old faces come to the casement 
 
 And peer through the vine-leaved bars. 
 No words, but I guess their fancies — 
 
 Their dreamings are also mine — 
 Of the land of the cloud and heather, 
 
 The region of " Auld Lang Syne.'' 
 Again we are treading the mountains, 
 
 Below us broadens the firth, 
 And billows of light keep rolling 
 
 Down leagues of empurpled heath. 
 
 Speed swift through the glowing tropics, 
 
 Stout ship which shall bear me home ; 
 Oh, pass as a God-sent arrow 
 
 Through tempest, darkness, and foam. 
 Bear up through the silent girdle 
 
 That circles the flying earth, 
 Till there shall blaze on thv compass 
 
 The loadstar over the north ; 
 That the winds of the hills may greet us. 
 
 That our footsteps again may be 
 In the land of our hearts' traditions, 
 
 And close to the storied sea. 
 
 223 
 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
 f 
 
 OUR OWN. 
 
 Tf I had known in the mornmg 
 How wearily all the day 
 
 The words unkind 
 
 Would trouble my mind 
 I said when you went away, 
 I had been more careful, darling, 
 
 Nor given you needless pain ; 
 But we vex our own 
 With look and tone 
 
 We might never take back again. 
 
 For though in the quiet evening 
 You may give me the kiss of peace, 
 
 Yet it might be 
 
 That never for me 
 The pain of the heart should cease. 
 How many go forth in the morning 
 
224 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 That never come home at night ; 
 
 And hearts have broken 
 
 For harsh words spoken 
 That sorrow can ne'er set right. 
 
 We have careful thoughts for the stranger, 
 And smiles for the sometime guest, 
 
 But oft for " our own " 
 
 The bitter tone. 
 Though we love " our own " the best. 
 Ah, lips with the curve impatient, 
 
 Ah, brow with that look of scorn, 
 'T were a cruel fate 
 Were the night too late 
 
 To undo the work of morn ! 
 
 DAN'S WIFE. 
 
 Up in early morning light, 
 Sweeping, dusting, "setting right," 
 Oiling all the household springs. 
 Sewing buttons, tying strings, 
 Telling Bridget what to do, 
 Mending rips in Johnny's shoe. 
 Running up and down the stair. 
 Tying baby in her chair, 
 Cutting meat and spreading bread, 
 Dishing out so much per head, 
 Eating as she can by chance. 
 Giving husband kindly glance ; 
 Toiling, working, busy life, — 
 
 Smart woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 
 Dan comes home at fall of night. 
 Home so cheerful, neat, and bright ; 
 Children meet him at the door. 
 Pull him in and look him o'er ; 
 Wife asks how the work has gone. 
 " Busy times with us at home t " 
 Supper done, Dan reads with ease, — 
 Happy Dan, but one to please ! 
 Children must be put to bed — 
 All the little prayers are said ; 
 Little shoes are placed in rows, 
 Bedclothes tucked o'er little toes; 
 Busy, noisy, wearing life, — 
 
 Tired woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 
HOME AND FIRESIDE, 
 
 Dan reads on and falls asleep — 
 See the woman softly creep ; 
 Baby rests at last, poor dear, 
 Not a word her heart to cheer ; 
 Mending-basket full to toji, 
 Stockings, shirt, and little frock; 
 Tired eyes and weary brain, 
 Side with darting, ugly pain ; 
 " Never mind, 't will pass away," 
 She must work, but never play; 
 Closed piano, unused books. 
 Done the walks to easy nooks, 
 Brightness faded out of life, — 
 
 Saddened woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 
 Up stairs, tossing to and fro, 
 Fever holds the woman low ; 
 Children wander free to play 
 When and where they will to-day ; 
 Bridget loiters — dinner 's cold, 
 Dan looks anxious, cross, and old ; 
 Household screws are out of place. 
 Lacking one dear, patient face ; 
 Steady hands, so weak but true. 
 Hands that knew just what to do, 
 Never knowing rest or play. 
 Folded now — and laid away; 
 Work of six in one short life, — 
 
 Sbattcred woman, 
 
 Dan's wife. 
 
 225 
 
 TIRED MOTHERS. 
 
 A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee. 
 
 Your tired knee, that has so much to bear; 
 A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly 
 
 From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. 
 Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch 
 
 Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight ; 
 You do not prize this blessing overmuch; 
 
 You almost are too tired to pray to-night. 
 
 But it is blessedness ! A year ago 
 
 I did not see it as I do to-day, — 
 We are so dull and thankless ; and too slow 
 
 To catch the sunshine till it slips away. 
 And now it seems surpassing strange to me 
 
 That, while I wore the badge of motherhood, 
 \ did not kiss more oft and tender ly 
 
 The little child that brought me only good. 
 
 15 
 
226 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And if, some night, when you sit clown to rest, 
 
 You miss this elbow from your tired knee, 
 This restless, curling head from off your breast, 
 
 This lisping tongue that chatters constantly; 
 If from your own the dimpled hands had slijjpcd, 
 
 And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; 
 If the white feet into their grave had tripped, 
 
 I could not blame you for your heartache then I 
 
 I wonder so that mothers ever fret 
 
 At little children clinging to their gown, 
 Or that the footprints, when the days are wet, 
 
 Are ever black enough to make them frown. 
 If I could find a little muddy boot, 
 
 Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor ; 
 If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot, 
 
 And hear its patter in my home once more ; 
 
 If I could mend a broken cart to-day, 
 
 To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky, — 
 There is no woman in God's world could say 
 
 She was more blissfully content than I. 
 But ah ! the dainty pillow next my own 
 
 Is never rumpled by a shining head ; 
 My singing birdling from its nest has flown, 
 
 The little boy I used to kiss is dead! 
 
 Mrs. May Riley Smith. 
 
 LITTLE STITCHES. 
 
 Oil, thoughts that go in with the stitches 
 
 That women quietly take, 
 While castles are built with the needle. 
 
 And bubbles are rounded to break. 
 
 You see in your kerchief-hem. Freshman, 
 
 A dotted line fairy and fine ; 
 But see you the prayers low and tender 
 
 Pricked in with the lengthening line ? 
 
 Betrothed, as you bend o'er the trousseau, 
 Absorbed in your rose-tinted dream, 
 
 Speak low as you censure the seamstress 
 For waver and knot in the seam. 
 
 In 'broidery dainty and foreign, 
 
 That falls at your waist, you can see 
 
 How trembled the hand of a novice. 
 In spite of the vigii-taught knee. 
 
HOME AND FIRESIDE. 
 
 For throbs of a woman heart smothered, 
 And cries that no penance can still, 
 
 Are lifting the w reath and the roses, 
 Are echoed from girdle and frill. 
 
 Oh, terrible, blood-reddened ladder 
 Of loops iiung on poverty's hands, 
 
 Up which goes the foot of Oppression 
 To gather gold out of its strands I 
 
 Waits yonder no echoing thunder, 
 No lightnings to smite from the cloud. 
 
 When falling tears rust the swift needle, 
 And threads tie the neck of a shroud ? 
 
 Ah, beautiful stitches so tiny, 
 
 Where brooding love waits in the nest. 
 In shadow of motherhood coming, 
 
 Half fearful, yet consciously blest I 
 
 What happy hopes lie in the gathers, 
 Or lurk in the robes soft and fine I 
 
 What buds underneath the leaves silky, 
 What day-dreams run with the vine! 
 
 No tale can you tell, little stitches, — 
 Such talcs as you might if you could ! 
 
 From flounces that cover a ball dress, 
 To seams in a holy monk's hood. 
 
 227 
 
 
 LIKE HIS MOTHER USED TO MAKE. 
 
 " I WAS born in Indiany," says a stranger lank and slim, 
 
 As us fellers in the restaurant was kind o' guyin' him, 
 
 And Uncle Jake was siidin' him another pun'kin pie 
 
 And an extra cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye — 
 
 " I was born in Indiany — more 'n forty year ago. 
 
 And I hain't been back in twenty — and I 'm workin' back'ards 
 
 slow ; 
 l?ut I 've et in every restarunt 'twixt here and Santa Fee, 
 And I want to state, this coffee tastes like gittin' home to me ! 
 
 " Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' up, 
 
 A speakin' crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup — 
 
 " When I seed your sign out yonder," he went on to Uncle 
 
 Jake — 
 " ' Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make ' — 
 I thought of my old mother and the Posey County farm. 
 And me a little kid ag'in, a hangin" in her arm 
 As she set the pot a bilin' — broke the eggs an' poured 'em in " — 
 And the feller kind o' halted, with a trimble in his chin. 
 
its ,'! 
 
 228 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's <.offee back, and stood 
 
 As solemn, fer a minute, as an undertaker would ; 
 
 Then he sort o* turned an' tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door^ and 
 
 next — 
 Here comes his old wife out with him a rubbin' of her specs — 
 And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, " It 's him ! 
 Thank God, we 've met him comin' I Don't you know your 
 
 mother, Jim ? " 
 And the feller as he grabbed her says :" You bet I hain't forgot " — 
 liut, wipin' of his eyes, says he, " Your coffee 's mighty hot I " 
 
 James Wiiitcomu Rilky. 
 
 L^l 
 
 ENCORE. 
 
 The singer stood in a blaze of light. 
 
 And fronted the flowery throng ; 
 Her lips apart with her greeting smile, 
 
 Her soul soared out in her song. 
 Now hovering like an imprisoned bird 
 
 With its plainings thrilling nigh, 
 Then faintly sweet, as the reapers hear 
 
 A lark afar in the sky ; 
 
 And forth like thunder the praises broke, 
 
 And the singer bowed and smiled, 
 And flowers fell fast in a scented storm — 
 
 liut she was not to be wiled, 
 "Shall I throw my gifts to this fickle throng?" 
 
 She thought with a bitter sigh. 
 " What do they care for my simple song ? " 
 
 As she courtesied a glad good-by. 
 
 The singer sat in her lonely room. 
 
 As the stars peeped out of the haze, 
 And her voice poured forth in its sweetest gush, 
 
 Though none was beside to praise — 
 Till she saw a form to 1 er window creep 
 
 And crouch by its mit.iy pane, — 
 An old dame wept at the wondrous song 
 
 That gave back her youth again ! 
 
 The singer stirred not, nor made a sign 
 
 That she saw where the listener stood. 
 Hut once and again she raised her voice 
 
 And poured out its golden flood. 
 And only ceased when the minster bells 
 
 Shook out their evening clang — 
 Then one thanked God for the song she heard, 
 
 And one for the song she sang. 
 
HOME AND FIRESIDE. 
 
 ROCKING THE BAIiY. 
 
 I HEAR her rocking the b.ihy — 
 
 Her room is next to mine — 
 And I fancy I feel the dimiiled arms 
 
 That round her neck entwine, 
 As she rocks and rocks the haby, 
 
 In the room just next to mine. 
 
 I hear her rocking the baby 
 Kach day wiicn the twilight comes, 
 
 And I know there 's a world of blessing and love 
 In the "baby-by " she hums. 
 
 I can see the restless fingers 
 
 riaying with "mamma's rings," 
 Tiie sweet little smiling, ])outing mouth 
 
 That to hers in kissing clings, 
 As she rocks antl sings to the babv, 
 
 And dreams as she rocks and sings. 
 
 I hear her rocking the baby, 
 
 Slower and slower now, 
 And I hear she is leaving her good-night kiss 
 
 On its eyes, and check, and brow. 
 
 From her rocking, rocking, rocking, 
 
 I wonder would she start 
 Could she know, through the wall between us, 
 
 She is rocking on a heart.' 
 While my empty arms are aching 
 
 For a form they may not press, — 
 And my empty heart is breaking 
 
 In its desolate loneliness. 
 
 I list to the rocking, rocking, 
 
 In the room just next to mine, 
 And breathe a i)raycr in silence, 
 
 At a mother's broken shrine. 
 For the woman who rocks the baby 
 
 In the room just next to mine. 
 
 r 
 
 I 
 
1 1 
 
PART IX. 
 
 I^ojje, Encouragement, and Contentments 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
\l\'' 
 
 And as, in sparkling majesty, a star 
 
 Gilds the orii:;ht summit of some gloomy cloud ; 
 
 Brightening the half-veiled face of heaven afar: 
 So when dark thoughts my brooding spirit shroud, 
 
 Sivect Hope ! celestial influence round me shed. 
 
 Waving thy silver pinions round my head. 
 
 Keats. 
 
PART IX. 
 
 ^opty (Encouragement, anti Contentment. 
 
 THE CHEERFUL HEART. 
 
 " The world is ever as we take it, 
 
 And life, dear child, is what we make it." 
 
 Thus spoke a grandam, bent with care, 
 To little Mabel, flushed and fair. 
 
 But Mabel took no heed that day 
 Of what she heard her grandam say. 
 
 Years after, when no more a child, 
 Her path in life seemed dark and wild. 
 
 Back to her heart the memory came 
 Of a quaint utterance of the dame : 
 
 " The world, dear child, is as we take it. 
 And life, be sure, is what we make it." 
 
 She cleared her brow, and smiling thought, 
 " 'T is even as the good soul taught ! 
 
 " And half my woes thus quickly cured. 
 The other half rnay be endured." 
 
 No more her heart its shadows wore ; 
 She grew a little child once more. 
 
 A little child in love and trust, 
 
 She took the world (as we, too, must) 
 
 
n 
 
 234 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 In happy mood ; and lo ! it grew 
 Brighter and brighter to her view. 
 
 She made of life (as we, too, should) 
 A joy ; and lo I all things were good 
 
 And fair to her as in God's sight 
 When first he said, " Let there be light." 
 
 SOMETIME. 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, 
 
 And sun and stars forevermore have set. 
 The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, 
 
 The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, 
 Will flash before us out of life's dark night. 
 
 As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue; 
 And we shall see how all God's plans were right, 
 
 And how what seemed reprc was love most true. 
 
 And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 
 
 God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
 How, when we called, he heeded not our cry. 
 
 Because his wisdom to the end could see. 
 And e'en as prudent parents disallow 
 
 Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, -, 
 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
 
 Life's sweetest things because it seemeth good. 
 
 And ifj sometimes, commingled with life's wine. 
 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, 
 Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
 
 Pours out the potion for our lips to drink. 
 And if some friend we love is lying low. 
 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his face. 
 Oh, do not blame the loving Father so. 
 
 But bear your sorrow with obedient grace I • 
 
 And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath 
 
 Is not the sweetest gift God sends his frionds, 
 And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 
 
 Conccids the fairest boon his love can send. 
 If we could push ajar the gates of life, 
 
 And stand within, and all God's working see, 
 We could ii>terpret all this doubt and strife, 
 
 And for each mystery could find a key. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 235 
 
 But not to-day ; then be content, poor hearts ; 
 
 God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold ; 
 We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart — 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
 And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 
 
 Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest. 
 When we shall know and clearly understand, 
 
 I think that we shall say that "God knows Ijcst." 
 
 Mrs. May Riley Smith. 
 
 WHAT LIFE HATH. 
 
 Life hath its barren years, 
 When blossoms fall untimely down, 
 When ripened fruitage fails to crown 
 The summer toil, when Nature's frown 
 
 Looks only on our tears. 
 
 Life hath its faithless days — 
 The golden promise of the morn. 
 That seemed for light and gladness born. 
 Mean only noontide wreck and scorn. 
 
 Hushed harp instead of praise. 
 
 Life hath its valleys too. 
 Where \ve must walk with vain regret, 
 With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet — 
 Towards sunlit hopes that soon must set, 
 
 All quenched in pitying dew. 
 
 Life hath its harvest moons. 
 Its tasselled corn and purple-weighted vine, 
 Its gathered sheaves of grain, the blessed sign 
 Of plenteous ripening, bread, and pure, rich wine ; 
 
 Full hearts for harvest tunes. 
 
 Life hath its hopes fulfilled. 
 Its glad fruitions, its blessed answered prayers, 
 Sweeter for waiting long whose holy air. 
 Indrawn to silent souls, breathes forth its rare, 
 
 Grand speech by ioy distilled. 
 
 I,ife hath its Tabor heights. 
 Its lofty mounts of heavenly recognition, 
 Whose unveiled glories flash to earth, muiiition 
 Of love and truth and clear intuition. 
 
 Hail ! mount of all delights. 
 
'Vii i 
 
 236 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I 
 
 ||i 
 
 I 
 
 li) 
 
 1: 
 
 LOVE AND LABOR. 
 
 We die not at all, for our deeds remain 
 To crown with honor or mar with stain ; 
 Through endless secjuence of years to come 
 Our lives shall speak when our lips are dumb. 
 
 What though we perish, unknown to fame, 
 Our tomb forgotten and lost our name, 
 Since nought is wasted in heaven or earth, 
 And nothing dies to which God gives birth 1 
 
 Though life be joyless and death be cold. 
 And pleasures pall as the world grows old, 
 Yet God has granted our hearts relief, 
 For Love and Labor can conquer grief. 
 
 Love sheds a light on the gloomy way. 
 And Labor hurries the weary day ; 
 Though death be fearful and life be hard, 
 Yet Love and Labor shall win reward. 
 
 If Love can dry up a f ingle tear, 
 
 If life-long Labor avail to clear 
 
 A single web from before the true 
 
 Then Love and Labor have won their due. 
 
 What though we mourn, we can comfort pain ; 
 What if we die, so the truth be plain 1 
 A little spark from a high desire 
 Shall kindle others, and grow a fire. 
 
 We are not worthy to work the whole, 
 We have no strength which may have a soul j 
 Enough for us if our life begin 
 Successful struggles with grief and sin. 
 
 Labor is mortal and fades away. 
 But Love shall triumph in perfect day ; 
 Labor may wither beneath the sod. 
 But Love lives ever, for Love is God. 
 
 LIFE'S TRIUMPH. 
 
 B 
 
 Each life has one grand day : the clouds may lie 
 Along the hills, and storm-winds fiercely blow — 
 The great red sun shine like a thing of woe. 
 
 And death's sad skeleton stalk grimly by. 
 
 Yet none of these, no matter how they try. 
 
 Can shroud the perfect triumph we shall know. 
 Or dim the glory th?t some star will show 
 
 Set far away in depths of purple sky. 
 
HOiE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 237 
 
 Sweet love may bring to us this day supreme, 
 Or it may thrill our souls through art or song, 
 Or meet us where red battle-surges foam ; 
 
 Hope's stranded wrecks the barren coasts may gleam, 
 And weeks and months rush by, a sombre throng, 
 But sometime, some*v'here, it will surely come. 
 
 Thomas S. Collikr. 
 
 WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN. 
 
 I 
 
 Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing, 
 
 Where the winds dance and spin ; 
 Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, 
 
 Over the breakers' din ; 
 Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, 
 Out where the blinding fog is drifting. 
 Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, 
 My ship is coming in. 
 
 Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching, 
 
 Day after weary day ; 
 Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking, 
 
 While the long nigh*^s ebbed away ; 
 Could I but know where the waves had tossed her. 
 Could I but know what storms had crossed her. 
 Could I but know where the winds had lost her. 
 
 Out in the twilight gray I 
 
 But though the storms her course have altered, 
 
 Surely the port she '11 win ; 
 Never my faith in my ship has faltered, 
 
 I know she is coming in. 
 For through the restless ways of her roaming, 
 Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, 
 Through the white crest of the billows combing. 
 
 My ship is coming in. 
 
 Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying, 
 
 Sv.'iftly she 's coming in ; 
 Shallows and deeps and rocks defying. 
 
 Bravely she 's coming in ; 
 Precious the love she will bring to bless me, 
 Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me. 
 In the proud purple of kings she will dress me, 
 
 My ship that is coming in. 
 
 White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming. 
 
 See, where my ship comes in ; 
 At mast-head and peak her colors streaming, 
 
 Proudly slie 's sailing in ; 
 
I 
 
 ■ 1 
 
 238 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering, 
 Music will welcome her glad appearing, 
 And my heart will sing at her stately nearing. 
 When my ship conies in. 
 
 Robert J. Burdette. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 
 In silence mighty things are wrought - 
 Silently builded, thought on thought, 
 
 Truth's temple greets the sky ; 
 And like a citadel with towers, 
 The soul with her subservient powers 
 
 Is strengthened silently. 
 
 Lynch. 
 
 OUTWARDS OR HOMEWARDS. 
 
 Still are the ships that in haven ride, 
 Waiting fair winds or a turn of the tide ; 
 Nothing they fret, though ihey do not get 
 Out on the glorious ocean wide. 
 Oh, wild hearts, that yearn to be free, 
 Look, and learn from the ships of the sea 1 
 
 Bravely the ships, in the tempest tossed, 
 
 Buffet the waves till the sea be crossed ; 
 
 Not in despair of the haven fair, 
 
 Though winds blow backward, and leagues be lost ; 
 
 Oh, weary hearts, that yearn for sleep. 
 
 Look, and learn from the ships of the deep ! 
 
 F. W. BOURDILLON 
 
 'f\ 
 
 THE JOY OF INCOMPLETENESS. 
 
 If all our life were one broad glare 
 
 Of sunlight, clear, unclouded; 
 If all our path were smooth and fair. 
 
 By no soft gloom enshrouded ; 
 If all life's fiowers were fully blown 
 
 Without the sweet unfolding. 
 And happiness were rudely thrown 
 On hands too weak for holding — 
 
 Should we not miss the twilight hours, 
 
 The gentle haze and sadness } 
 Should we not long for storms and shower.<« 
 To break the constant gladness ? 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 239 
 
 If none were sick and none were sad, 
 
 What service could wc render? 
 I think if we were always glad, 
 We scarcely could be tender. 
 Did our beloved never need 
 Our patient ministration, 
 Earth would grow cold and miss indeed 
 Its sweetest consolation ; 
 If sorrow never claimed our heart, 
 
 And every wish were granted. 
 Patience would die, and hope depart — 
 Life would be disenchanted. 
 
 And yet in heaven is no more night. 
 
 In heaven is no morn sorrow ! 
 Such unimagincd new delight 
 
 Fresh grace from pain will borrow. 
 As tlie poor seed that underground 
 
 Seeks its true life above it, 
 Not knowing what will there be found 
 When sunbeams kiss and love it, 
 So we in darkness u]5ward grow, 
 And look aiid long for heaven, 
 But cannot picture it below 
 Till more of light be given. 
 
 Note. — A more complete version of this anonymous poem than that found 
 in Harper's Encyclopaedia of Poetry , in which the last eight lines given here 
 are missing. 
 
 A PLEA FOR "CASTLES IN THE AIR." 
 
 Amid the myriad troubles that meet us day by day. 
 Who would not from the conflict a moment turn away. 
 And in a far-off fairy-land, where men no burdens bear, 
 Forget awhile our tears and toil in " castles in the air " ? 
 
 When many a bright-hued prospect fades fast beyond our view. 
 And hopes which neared fruition prove shadowy and untrue ; 
 May ve not in that dreamland, beyond all cloucls and care, 
 Behold our Paradise restored in " castles in the air " ? 
 
 Oh, there are lonely chambers in every home and heart — 
 And in life's song of sorrow each one must bear a part. 
 But hark! what mystic melodies soon hush the voice of care, 
 As parted hands are clasped once more in "cat ,les in the air." 
 
 Then never grow discouraged though fortune favors not, 
 And we pursue life's pilgrimage unnoticed or forgot ; 
 We have an hour of victory and lustrous laurels wear — 
 For all are kings and conquerors in "castles in the air." 
 
 jAcon GouJH. 
 
240 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 LEARN TO WAIT. 
 
 Learn to wait — life's hardest lesson, 
 Conned perchance, through blinding tears, 
 
 While the heart-throbs sadly echo 
 To the tread of passing years. 
 
 Learn to wait — hope's slow fruition ; 
 
 Faint not, though the way seem long; 
 There is joy in each condition, 
 
 Hearts, through suffering, may grow strong. 
 
 Constant sunshine, howe'er welcome, 
 Ne'er would ripen fruit or flower ; 
 
 Giant oaks owe half their greatness , 
 
 To the scathing tempest's power. 
 
 Thus a soul untouched by sorrow 
 
 Aims not at a higher state ; 
 Joy seeks not a brighter morrow, 
 
 Only sad hearts learn to wait. 
 
 Human strength and human greatness 
 Spring not from life's sunny side; 
 
 Heroes nmst be more than driftwood 
 Floating on a waveless tide. 
 
 I »■ i- : 
 
 lllp 
 
 
 K 
 
 , 
 
 ^^B 
 
 1 
 
 BB ! 
 
 1 
 
 ifrpi 
 
 1 
 
 ; ilL 
 
 
 \ bHhk 
 
 1 
 
 ^^^^^^1 
 
 R 
 
 ■^^^B ' 
 
 
 W 
 
 P 
 
 ImBli 
 
 ui 
 
 i 
 
 BETTER TO CLIMB AND FALL. 
 
 Give me a man with an aim. 
 
 Whatever that aim may be, 
 Whether it 's wealth, or whether it 's fame, 
 
 It matters not to me. 
 Let him walk in the path of right, 
 
 And keep his aim in sight, 
 And work and pray in faith alway, 
 
 With his eye on the glittering height. 
 
 Give me a man who says, — 
 
 " I will do something well. 
 And make the fleeting days 
 
 A story of labor tell." 
 Though the aim he has be small. 
 
 It is better than none at all ; 
 With something to do the whole year through 
 
 He will not stumble or fall. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTAfENT. 24 1 
 
 Hut Satan weaves a snare 
 
 Vox the feet of those who stray 
 With never a thought or care 
 
 Where tlie path may lead away. 
 The man who has no aim, 
 
 Not only leaves no name 
 When this life is done, but ten to one 
 
 lie leaves a record of shame. 
 
 Give me a man whose heart 
 
 Is filled with ambition's fire ; 
 Who sets his mark in the start, 
 
 And keeps moving it higher and higher. 
 Better to die in the strife, 
 
 The hands with labor rife, 
 Than to glide with the stream in an idle dream, 
 
 And lead a purposeless life. 
 
 Better to strive and climb. 
 
 And never reach the goal. 
 Than to drift along with time, 
 
 An aimless, worthless soul. 
 Ay, better to climb and fall, 
 
 Or sow, though the yield be small, 
 Than to throw away day after day, 
 
 And never to strive at all. 
 
 BY AND BY. 
 
 Was the parting very bitter ? 
 
 Was the hand clasped very tight ? 
 Is a storm of tear-drops falling 
 
 From a face all sad and white .<' 
 Think not of it, in the future, 
 
 Calmer, fairer days are nigh — 
 Gaze not l)ackward, but look onward 
 
 For a sunny " by and by." 
 
 Was the priceless love you lavished. 
 
 Sought for, played with, and then slain ? 
 Were its crushed and quivering remnants 
 
 Calmly thrown you back again .'' 
 Calmly, too, those remnants gather, 
 
 Bring them home without a sigh ; 
 Sweet returns they yet shall bring you 
 
 In the coming " by and by." 
 
 Are the eyelids very heavy ? 
 
 Does the tired head long for rest ? 
 Are the temjjles hot and throbbing, 
 
 And the hands together pressed ? 
 16 
 
242 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Hope shall lay you on her bosom, 
 Cool the i>oor lips parched and dry, 
 
 And shall whisper, '* Rest is coming — ■ 
 Rest forever, ' by and by.' " 
 
 And when calmed and cheered and freshened 
 
 By her soul-inspiring voice, 
 Then look up, the heavens are brightening — 
 
 Cease your wailing and rejoice. 
 Cry not for th« days departed. 
 
 None will -loar you, none reply; 
 But look up where light is breaking 
 
 O'er a brighter "by and by." 
 
 FAILURE. 
 
 ijii 
 
 The Lord, whf fashioned my hands for working, 
 
 Set me a tasl* and it is not done ; 
 I have tried and tried since the early morning, 
 
 And no"^ va the westward sinketh the sun. 
 
 Noble the task that was kindly given 
 
 To one so little and weak as I, — 
 Somehow my strength would never grasp it. 
 
 Never as days and years flew by. 
 
 Others found me cheerfully toiling. 
 
 Showed me tliC'T A'ork as they passed away ; 
 
 Filled were t* eir h^nds to overflowing, 
 Proud were »hoir heart^, and glad and gay. 
 
 i. 
 
 Laden with harvest spoils they entered 
 In at the golden .fljate of thcii rest ; 
 
 Laid their sheaves at XY^ feet ot the Master, 
 Found their places among the blest. 
 
 Happy are those who strove to help me — 
 
 Failing ever in spite of their aid; 
 Fain would their love have borne me with them. 
 
 But I was unready and sore afraid. 
 
 Now I know my task will never be finished, 
 And when the Master callcth my name, 
 
 His voice will find me still at my labor, 
 Weeping beside it in weary shame. 
 
 With empty hands I shall rise to meet him, 
 And when he looks for the fruit of years, 
 
 Nothing have I to lay before him 
 But broken efforts and bitter tears. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMExVT. 243 
 
 Yet when he calls I fain would hasten — 
 Mine eyes are dim and their light is gone ; 
 
 And I am weary as though I carried 
 A burden of beautiful work well done. 
 
 I will fold my empty hands on my bosom — 
 Meekly thus, in the shape of a cross; 
 
 And the Lord, who made me so frail and feeble, 
 Maybe will pity their strife and loss. 
 
 NEAR THE DAWN. 
 
 When life's troubles gather darkly 
 
 Round the way we follow here. 
 When no hope the sad heart lightens. 
 
 No voice speaks a word of cheer ; 
 Then the thought the shadow scatters, 
 
 Giving us a cheering ray, — 
 When the night appears the darkest, 
 
 Morning is not far away. 
 
 When adversity surrounds us. 
 
 And our sunshine friends pass by, 
 And the dreams so fondly cherished 
 
 With our shattered treasures lie ; 
 Then amid such gloomy seasons 
 
 This sweet thought can yet be drawn, - 
 When the darkest hour is present, 
 
 It is always near the dawn. 
 
 When the spirit fluttering lingers 
 
 On the confines of this life, 
 Parting from all joyful memories, 
 
 And from every scene of strife, 
 Though the scene is sad and gloomy. 
 
 And the body shrinks in fear. 
 These dark hours will soon be vanished, 
 
 And the glorious morn be here. 
 
 Pain cannot affect us always, 
 
 brighter days will soon be here ; 
 Sorrow may oppress us often. 
 
 Yet a happier time is near; 
 Al! along our earthly journey 
 
 This reflection lights the way, — 
 Nature's darkest hour is always 
 
 Just before the break of day. 
 
244 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 MAGDALENA. 
 
 Magdalkna's robes are trailing through the highway's soiling 
 dust, 
 
 Spotless hem and seam are glazing over with apparent rust; 
 
 Hooded cloak conceals the contour of her drooping head and 
 face, 
 
 Hiding outline and proportion of her form whose step is grace. 
 
 Small her feet and arched her instep gliding onward travel- 
 stained — 
 
 Feet whose wealth and pride of birthright have the common 
 earth disdained. 
 
 Who can prove that Magdalcna walks alone in strange dis- 
 guise } 
 
 Who unclasp the hooded mantle hiding face and veiling eyes .'' 
 
 M'. % 
 
 Magdalcna lives in grandeur, and the nobles round her wait, 
 And her chariot on the highway bears armorial gauds of state ; 
 Pair and proud is Magdalcna, pride of birth and pride of 
 
 scorn ; 
 Fairer, earth ne'er gave existence since the day that Eve was 
 
 born. 
 Form as stately, mould as perfect, eyes of blue and forehead 
 
 fair. 
 Crowned with woman's crown of glory — wondrous waves of 
 
 golden hair. 
 
 Magdalcna loves in secret, loves the lowliest fisher's son ; — 
 She can never wed the Gentile who her faith and soul has 
 
 won ; 
 He is brave and tall and graceful, fair as any son of earth, 
 liut his grace is all of nature, not from gentle blood and birth. 
 Yesterday the highest ruler in the land of Judah came, 
 Kneeling at her feet in splendor, offering her his hand and 
 
 name ; 
 But he tarried not till evening, whispering love vows ■'neath 
 
 the moon. 
 Rode away in crimson anger, anger o'er his slighted boon. 
 
 i' 'T- 
 
 •s 
 
 Magdalcna, pale with passion, struggling in her bonds of love, 
 Envying every meaner thing from mated man to mated dove, 
 Spurns the laws of men and birthright, spurns the laws of 
 
 maiden shame, 
 Scorns the ruler and his greatness, scorns alike her wealth and 
 
 fame ; 
 Heeding but the charm which draws her towards the fisher's 
 
 manly grace, 
 Parting with the hopes of woman for his ardent love embrace. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT, 245 
 
 Magdalena's cheeks are glowing with her lover's kisses warm, 
 And his manly arms close foldnig round her lithe and yielding 
 
 form ; 
 Nature owns no paltry barrier, love has conquered pride o£ 
 
 birth, 
 And their wedded souls in spirit know no other bonds on 
 
 earth. 
 Wrapt in bliss of love's elysium, answering pulse and beating 
 
 heart, — 
 Fame and name and life forgotten, e'en the law that bids them 
 
 part. 
 
 Magdalena's fame is sullied, like her robes with highway dust ; 
 
 Scribes and Pharisees proclaim her sin and shame before the 
 just; 
 
 Fair and high-born Magdalena, drooping form and head low- 
 bowed, 
 
 Guilty captive at the mercy of a coarse, vindictive crowd 
 
 Clamoring for the law of Moses, so to stone her till she dies, 
 
 Waiting judgment from the Master, life or death as he replies. 
 
 Spies have proved that Magdalena walks alone in strange 
 disguise, 
 
 Torn away the hooded mantle hiding face and veiling eyes. 
 
 Magdalena scorned the ruler ; he it was who hired the spies. 
 Into all her secrets prying, forcing off her strange disguise, 
 Tearing from the fond embraces of her lover's lolding arms, 
 Forcing her from love's protection, rudely railing at her 
 
 charms, 
 Rrinffing her within the temple with her head and bosom bare, 
 No disguise to hide her blushes, save her veil of golden hair. 
 
 Magdalena stands in terror, with her small hands tightly pressed. 
 Hiding with th' so waves of glory half the beauty of her breast ; 
 Torn her robes nd lost her sandals, vain she hides her gleam- 
 ing feet. 
 Guilt ne'er brought so fair a captive pleading at a mercy'seat ; 
 He who never knew the passion of the sinner's throbbing soul, 
 Bows his spotless head in pity as her tears of anguish roll. 
 
 Magdalena's eyes are heavy with their penitential tears. 
 As she gazes on the Master and his words of mercy hears ; 
 See the hideous crowd before her, droj)ping each his vengeful 
 
 stone. 
 Gliding out with guilty faces, leaving her with him alone. 
 Jesus, when the last had left her, gazed in pity on her face. 
 Gave assurance of his pardon by his looks and words of grace, 
 Gave his strength to Magdalena, strength to walk without 
 
 disguise ; 
 His large soul of purest love-light dried her penitential eyes. 
 
246 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 Magdalena's robes are floating in the pathway of the just, 
 Spotless seam and hem protected from the earth's corrosive 
 
 rust ; 
 Pride of wealth and pride of nature made subservient to the 
 
 good, 
 Thousands bless the unknown giver for the boon of daily food; 
 And the manly fisher, leaving tent, and net, and fisher's rod. 
 Follows as a meek disciple worshipping the Son of God ; 
 In his strength walks Magdalena evermore without disguise. 
 Faithful to the hand that saved her and his love-light in her 
 
 eyes. 
 
 WAITING. 
 
 LrsTENiNO, yearning, 
 "While the lingering, lengthening shadows 
 
 Link the twilight to the day, 
 While the dewy breath of evening. 
 Sweet with balm from far away, 
 Sw:;ys the drooping passion-flower 
 Clinging to n«y lonely bower, 
 Where I sU, heart-sore and weary, 
 Facing the sad sight so dreary ; 
 
 Listening, yearning 
 For a step that 's ne'er returning. 
 
 Listening, yearning — 
 Oh, sad heart, be stilled thy moaning, — 
 Suns may wane and months may roll. 
 Years may glide in silent sorrow 
 O'er the hope that mocks my soul. 
 Hush thy wail — let no sharp crying 
 Str'ke upon the dumb hours, flying, 
 While I sit, 'mid shadows falling. 
 Hoping, heark'ning, watching, calling, 
 
 Listening, yearning 
 For a wanderer's step returning. 
 
 'i .... 
 
 Listening, yearning — 
 Oh, the night grows cold and dreary. 
 
 Loud the chill wind moans and sighs — 
 Ghostly faces, wan and eerie. 
 
 Haunt me with their pitying eyes ; 
 Ghosts of dead hopes yet remaining — 
 With their sad eyes still complaining 
 Though their mute lips make no wailing. 
 Ah, lone watch so unavailing I 
 
 Listening, yearning 
 For a dear one's step returning. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 247 
 
 Listening, yearning — 
 Bleak the night, and storm-clouds gather, 
 Light grows dim, and hope grows cold ; 
 Closer press the pitying spectres — 
 Ah 1 they clasp me in their fold. 
 Life was mournful — death is sweeter — 
 Memory maketh love completer. 
 Dear, tnrough evening shadows falling, 
 Nevermore I wait thee, calling, 
 
 listening, yearning 
 For thy step too late returning. 
 
 Listening, yearning — 
 O'er the battlements celestial, 
 
 See the pure-browed seraphs lean 
 Earthward, keeping calms of silence. 
 Waves of pulsing songs between. 
 Oh, by Love Divine once yearning 
 O'er a world. Love's call proud spurning, 
 Love for loss full compensating, — 
 I adjure thee, seek me, waiting, 
 
 Listening, yearning, 
 Down from heaven for thy returning. 
 
 HEADS, HEARTS, AND HANDS. 
 
 Heads that think and hearts that feel, 
 Hands that turn the busy wheel, 
 Make our life worth living here, 
 In this mundane hemisphere : 
 Heads to plan what hearts shall do, 
 Hearts to bear us bravely through — 
 Thinking head and toiling hand 
 Are the masters of the land. 
 
 When a thought becomes a thing, 
 Busy hands make hammers ring 
 Until honest work has wrought 
 Into shape the thinker's thought ; 
 Which will aid to civilize. 
 And make nations great and wise, 
 Lifting to a lofty height 
 In this age of thought and light. 
 
 Miracles of science show 
 With their light the way to go; 
 Touch a tube of gas, and light 
 Blossoms bke the stars of night ; 
 
248 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Touch another tube, and lo I 
 
 Streams of crystal waters fjow ; 
 Touch a telegraphic wire, 
 And your thought has wings of fire. 
 
 Hail to honest hearts and hands. 
 And to the head that understands ; 
 
 Hands that dare to truth subscribe, 
 
 Hands that never touched a bribe ; 
 Hearts that hate a deed unjust. 
 Hearts that other hearts can trust ; 
 
 Heads that plan for others' weal, 
 
 Heads poised over hearts that feel. 
 
 George W. Bungay. 
 
 THROUGH TOIL. 
 
 I HOLD it better far that one should rule 
 Imperious tempers with a sinewy will. 
 Than, amiable and passionless of soul. 
 With folded hands amid life's din sit still. 
 Since, though ofttimes the battle goeth hard, 
 Strength comes with struggle, and wild olive leaves 
 Twined round a brow begrimed and battle-scarred 
 Mean more to noble men and nobler gods 
 Than costliest purples of inglorious ease. 
 
 Though tired men through toil-encumbered years 
 Seek restful havens, lotus-lands of dreams. 
 Who that hath seen doth evermore forget 
 What glory o'er his burnished armor gleams 
 Who fights with grosser self, or crushes down 
 With stalwart blows the vices cf his age, 
 Thridding the austere heights ol chaste renown ? 
 The victor's joy Fate nevermce reveals 
 To sluggish souls, — nor his transcendent peace. 
 
 A. L. Hinds. 
 
 "TIME TO ME." 
 
 Time to me this truth hath taught, 
 'T is a truth that 's worth revealing : 
 
 More offend from want of thought 
 Than from want of feeling. 
 
 li advice we would convey, 
 
 There 's a time we should convey it ; 
 If we 've but a word to say, 
 
 There 's a time in which to say it. 
 
 I *«.-UL.,iJL-H It il l 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 249 
 
 Many a beauteous flower decays, 
 Though we tend it e'er so much ; 
 
 Something secret on it preys, 
 Which no human aid can touch. 
 
 So in many a loving breast 
 
 Lies some canker-grief concealed, 
 
 That, if touched, is more oppressed, 
 Left unto itself — is healed I 
 
 Oft, unknowingly, the tongue 
 
 Touches on a chord so aching 
 That a word or accent wrong 
 
 Pains the heart almost to breaking. 
 
 Many a tear of wounded pride. 
 Many a fault of human blindness, 
 
 Has been soothed or turned aside 
 13y a quiet voice of kindness. 
 
 Time to me this truth hath taught, 
 'T is a truth that 's worth revealing : 
 
 More offend from want of thought 
 Than from want of feeling. 
 
 SOMEHOW OR OTHER. 
 
 Life is a burden to every one's shoulder ; 
 
 None may escape from its troubles and care ; 
 Miss it in youth and 'twill come when we're older. 
 
 And fit us as close as the garments we wear. 
 Sorrow comes into our home uninvited. 
 
 Robbing our heart of its treasures of song ; 
 Lovers grow cold and our friendships are slighted. 
 
 Yet somehow or other we worry along. 
 
 Midst the sweet blossoms that smile on our faces 
 
 Grow the rank weeds that wonlc^ poison and blight ; 
 And e'en in the midst of earth's beautiful places 
 
 There 's always a something that is n't just right. 
 Yet oft from the rock we may pick a gay flower. 
 
 And drink from a spring in a desolate waste ; 
 They come to the heart as a heavenly dower, 
 
 And nought is so sweet to the eye or the taste. 
 
 Every-day toil is an evcry-day blessing, 
 Though poverty's cottage and crust we may rhare; 
 
 Weak is the back on which burdens are pressing, 
 But stout is the heart which is strengthened by prayer. 
 
 U\ 
 
250 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Somehow or other the pathway grows brighter 
 Just when we mourned there was none to befriend ; 
 
 Hope in the heart makes the burden seem lighter, 
 And somehow or other we get to the end. 
 
 FALLEN. 
 
 Herb is my hand, 
 
 weary one — 
 
 A smile for love defiled, 
 A tear for hope reviled, 
 A brother's faith for her whom men are taught to shun. 
 
 What men may do or say 
 
 1 care not now ; < 
 To me thou art a ray 
 
 Of sunlight — borne away 
 By »oo sweet dreams of earth, whose shadows haunt thy brow. 
 
 • K The visions I recall — 
 
 Thy girlish face. 
 Thy voice like music's fall, 
 Thy tender glances, all 
 Thy naiure like the heart of life's impassioned grace. 
 
 And now thine eyes are filled 
 
 With tears of shame I 
 Where passion burned and thrilled. 
 Death's angels have instilled 
 The anguish and remorse that lips with horror frame. 
 
 The world's taunts hotly burn 
 
 Upon thy cheek ; 
 Thy pitiless sisters turn 
 From thy sad eyes, and spurn 
 Thy prayers — like cries of sin unworthy to bespeak. 
 
 Yet art thou lost indeed ? 
 
 O stricken soul I 
 Must life forever bleed 
 For one embittered deed ? 
 Shall all the golden days be useless to console? 
 
 Is charity then dead. 
 
 And pity blind ? 
 O child I but few have read 
 Thy heart. Yet I have shed 
 Tears scorching as thine own for Christ's love undivined. 
 
 Geo. Edward Montgomery. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 2$l 
 
 PESSIMISM. 
 
 •' Is life worth living? — Well, to tell you true, 
 It scarcely is, if all men were like you." 
 
 Brtght-faced maiden, bright-souled maiden, 
 
 Wiiat is this that I must hear? 
 Is thy heart with sorrow laden, 
 
 Is thine eye dimmed with a tear ? 
 Can it be that lips so sweetly 
 
 Rounded to be kindly kissed 
 Could be twisted indiscreetly 
 
 To the vile word Pessimist ? 
 Not for thine own ills thou weepest ; 
 
 Softly feathered is thy nest ; 
 When thou wakest, when thou sleepest, 
 
 Thou art fortuned with the best. 
 But thy sisters and thy brothers 
 
 Pierced with many a woful smart, 
 Dying children, wailing mothers, 
 
 Fret thy nerve and stab thy heart. 
 In the country, in the city. 
 
 Godless deeds, a loveless list. 
 Stir thy blood and move thy pity, 
 
 And thou art a Pessimist. 
 Storms and wars and tribulations, 
 
 Fevered passions' reinless tide. 
 With insane hallucinations 
 
 Mingled, travel far and wide. 
 Can there be an Eye inspecting 
 
 Things so tumbhng in pell-mell, 
 With a cool control directing 
 
 Such a hotbed, such a hell ? 
 Nay, sweet maid, but think more slowly; 
 
 Though this thing and that be sad, 
 'T is a logic most unholy 
 
 That the gross of things is bad ; 
 'T is a trick of melancholy. 
 
 Tainting life with death's alloy; 
 Or in wis ^om, or in folly. 
 
 Nature still delights in joy. 
 Dost thou hear of starving sinners, — 
 
 Nine and ten, or ninety-nine ? 
 Many thousands eat good dinners, 
 
 Many hundreds quaff good wine. 
 Hast thou seen a score of cripples? 
 
 Equal legs are not uncommon ; 
 If vou know one fool that tipples. 
 
 Thousands drink not — man and woman ; 
 
252 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 .•I 
 
 I 
 
 Tell me if you know how many 
 
 Murders happen in the town? 
 One a year, perhaps, if any ; 
 
 Should that weigh vour heart quite down? 
 No doubt, if you react the papers, 
 
 You will find a strange hotch-potch — 
 Doting dreams, delirious capcis. 
 
 Many a blunder, blot, and blotch ; 
 Bags of windy speculation, 
 
 liabblement of small and great. 
 Cheating, swindling, peculation, 
 
 Squabblement of Church and State ; , * 
 
 Miners blown up, humbugs shown up, 
 
 Beaten wives, insulted brides. 
 Raving preachers, witless teachers, 
 
 Lunatics and suicides ; 
 Drains rind cesspools, faintings, fevers, 
 
 Poisoned cats and stolen collies, ^ 
 
 Simple women, gay deceivers, 
 
 Every sort and size of follies ; 
 Wandering M. P.'s brainless babble, 
 
 Deputations, meetings, dinners. 
 Riots of the lawless rabble, 
 
 Purple sins of West End sinners ; 
 Driving, dicing, drinking, dancing, 
 
 Spirit rapping, ghostly stuff ; 
 Bubble schemes and deft financing, 
 
 When the shares are blown enough. 
 All this is true ; when men cut capers 
 
 That make the people talk or stare. 
 To-morrow when you ope the papers 
 
 You 're sure to find their antics there. 
 But you and I and all our neighbors 
 
 Meanwhile, in pure and peaceful ways, 
 With link on link of fruitful labors. 
 
 Draw out our chain of hap])y days. 
 See things as they are ; be sober ; 
 
 Balance well life's loss and gain ; 
 If to-day be chill October, 
 
 Summer suns will come again. 
 Are bleak winds forever sighing ? 
 
 Do dark clouds forever lower ? 
 Are your friends all dead and dying ? 
 
 All your sweetness turned to sour ? 
 Great men, no doubt, have sometimes small ways, 
 
 But a horse is not an ass, 
 And a black snake is not always 
 
 Lurking in the soft green grass. 
 Don't be hasty, gentle lady. 
 
 In this whirl of diverse things 
 Keep your footing, and with steady 
 
 Poise control your equal wings. N 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 253 
 
 Blackwood. 
 
 All things can't to all be pleasant ; 
 
 I love bitter, you love sweet ; 
 Some faint when a cut is present ; 
 
 Rats find babies' cheeks a treat. 
 If all tiny things were tall things, 
 
 If all petty things were grand, 
 Where would greatness be, when all things 
 
 On one common level stand ? 
 Do you think the winged breezes, 
 
 Fraught with healthy ventilation. 
 When a tender infant sneezes 
 
 Should retreat with trepidation ? 
 When dry Earth to Heaven is calling 
 
 For soft rain and freshening dew. 
 Shall the rain refrain from falling 
 
 Lest my lady wet her shoe ? 
 Fools still rush to rash conclusions, 
 
 And the mole-eyed minion, man, 
 Talks of troubles and confusions, 
 
 When he sees not half the plan. 
 Spare to blame and fear to cavil, 
 
 With short leave dismiss your pain, 
 Let no fretful fancies revel 
 
 In the sanctum of your brain. 
 Use no magnifying-glasses 
 
 To change molehills into mountains, 
 Nor on every ill that passes 
 
 Pour hot tears from bitter fountains. 
 Trust in God and know your duty ; 
 
 Some good things are in your power ; 
 Every day will bring its booty 
 
 From the labor of the hour. 
 Never reck what fools are prating, 
 
 Work and wait, let sorrow lie ; 
 " Live and love ; have done with hating," 
 
 Goethe says — and so say I. 
 
 
 DO SOMETHING. 
 
 If the world seems cool to you. 
 
 Kindle firts to warm it ! 
 Let their comfort hide from you 
 
 Winters that deform it. 
 Hearts as frozen as your own 
 
 To that radiance gather ; 
 You will soon forget to moan, 
 
 " Ah I the cheerless weather I " 
 
 4 
 
254 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 If the world 's a " vale of tears," 
 
 Smile till rainbows span it; 
 Breathe the love that life endears — 
 
 Clear from clouds to fan it. 
 Of your gladness lend a gleam 
 
 Unto souls that shiver ; 
 Show them how dark sorrow's stream 
 
 Blends with hope's bright river. 
 
 THE GOLDEN SIDE. 
 
 There 's many a rest on the road of life, 
 
 If we only would stop to take it ; 
 And many a tone from the better land. 
 
 If the querulous heart would wake it. i 
 To the sunny soul that is full of hope, 
 
 And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, 
 The grass is green and the flowers are bright, 
 
 Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 
 
 ! '.. ,ii 
 
 Better to hope though the clouds hang low, 
 
 And to keep the eyes still lifted ; 
 For the sweet blue slcy will soon peep through, 
 
 When the ominous clouds are rifted. 
 There was never a night without a day, 
 
 Nor an evening without a morning ; 
 And the darkest hour, the proverb goes, 
 
 Is the hour before the dawning. 
 
 > 
 
 There is many a gem in the path of life, 
 
 Which we pass in our idle pleasure. 
 That is richer far than the jewelled crown 
 
 Or the miser's hoarded treasure ; 
 It may be the love of a little child. 
 
 Or the mother's prayer to Heaven, 
 Or only a beggar's grateful thanks 
 
 For a cup of water given. 
 
 il li' 
 
 Better to weave in the web of life 
 
 A bright and golden filling. 
 And to do God's will with a ready heart, 
 
 And hands that are swift and willing, 
 Than to snap the delicate silver threads 
 
 Of our curious lives asunder, 
 And then Heav'n blame for the tangled ends, 
 
 And sit and grieve and wonder. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 255 
 
 MAXIMUS. 
 
 I HOLD him great who for love's sake 
 Can give with generous, earnest will ; 
 
 Yet he who takes for love's sweet sake, 
 I think I hold more generous still. 
 
 I bow before the noble mind 
 
 That freely sonic great wrong forgives ; 
 Yet nobler is the one forgiven, 
 
 Who bears that burden well and lives. 
 
 It may be hard to gain and still 
 To keep a lowly, steadfast heart ; 
 
 Yet he who loses has to fill 
 A harder and a truer part. 
 
 Glorious it is to wear the crown 
 Of a deserved and pure success ; 
 
 He who knows how to fail has won 
 A crown whose lustre is no lets. 
 
 Great may he be who can command 
 And rule with just and tender sway ; 
 
 Yet is diviner wisdom taught 
 Better by him who can obey. 
 
 Blessed are those who die for God, 
 And earn the martyr's crown of light ; 
 
 Yet he who lives for God may be 
 A greater conq'ieror in his sight. 
 
 THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW. 
 
 The work of the sun is slow, 
 But as surr as heaven, we know ; 
 
 So we '11 not forget. 
 
 When the skies are wet, 
 There 's green grass under the snow. 
 
 When the winds of winter blow, 
 Wailing like voices of woe, 
 There are April showers, 
 And buds and flowers. 
 And green grass under the snow. 
 
256 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 We find that it 's ever so 
 In this life's uneven flow ; 
 
 We 've only to wait, 
 
 In the face of fate, 
 For the green grass under the snow. 
 
 Annie A. Preston. 
 
 < ii 
 
 '*i - 
 
 RAIN IN THE HEART. 
 
 " Into each life some rain must fall." 
 
 If this were all — oh ! if this were all, 
 That into each life some rain must fall, 
 There were fewer sobs in the poet's rhyme, 
 There were fewer wrecks on the shores of time. 
 
 lUit tempests of woe dash over the soul — 
 Since w ids of anguish we cannot control ; 
 And shock after shock are we called to bear, 
 Till the lips are white with the heart's despair. 
 
 The shores of time with wrecks are strewn, 
 Unto the car comes ever a moan — 
 Wrecks of hope that set sail with glee. 
 Wrecks of love sinking silently. 
 
 Many are hid from the human eye ; 
 Only God knowcth how deep they lie ; 
 Only God heard when arose the i)raycr, 
 " Help me to bear — oh ! help me to bear." 
 
 " Into "^ach life some rain must fall." 
 if this were all — oh ! if this were all ; 
 Yet there 's a refuge from storm and blast — 
 Gloria Patri — we '11 reach at last. 
 
 Be strong, be strong, to my heart I cry, 
 The pearl in the wounded shell doth lie ; 
 Days of sunshine are given to all. 
 Though " into each life some rain must fall." 
 
 "GIVE THANKS FOR WITAT?" 
 
 " Let earth give thanks," the deacon said, 
 And then the Proclamation read. 
 
 " Give thanks fer what, an' what about ^ " 
 Asked Simon Soggs wiien church was out ;• 
 "(Jive thanks fer what .'' I don't see why, 
 The rust got in an' spiled my rye, 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 257 
 
 And hay wa'n't half a crop, and corn 
 All wilted down and looked forlorn. 
 The bugs just gobbled my pertaters 
 The what you call 'em — lineaters, 
 And gracious I when you come to wheat, 
 There 's more than all the world can eat; 
 Onless a war should interfere, 
 Crops won't bring half a price this year ; 
 I '11 hev to give 'cm away, I reckon ! '* 
 
 " Good for the poor ! " exclaimed the deacon. 
 
 " Give thanks fer what ? " asked Simon Soggs ; 
 
 " Fer th' freshet carryin' off my logs? 
 
 Fer Dobbin goin' blind } Fer five 
 
 Uv my best cows, that was alive 
 
 Afore the smashin' railroad come 
 
 And made it awful t'oublesome ? 
 
 Fer that haystack the lightnin' struck 
 
 And burnt to ashes ? — thunderin' luck ! — 
 
 Fer ten dead sheep .'' " sighed Simon Soggs. 
 
 The deacon said, " You 've got yer hogs I " 
 
 " Give thanks } And Jane and baby sick } 
 I e'enmost wonder if (3le Nick 
 Ain't running things ! " 
 
 The deacon said, 
 " Simon, your people might be dead I " 
 
 " Give thanks I " said Simon Soggs again. 
 
 "Jest look at what a fix we 're in I 
 
 The country 's rushin' to the dogs 
 
 At race-horse sjieed ! " said Simon Soggs. 
 
 " Rotten all through, in every State ; 
 
 Why, ef we don't repudiate. 
 
 We '11 have to build, for big and small, 
 
 A poorhouse that '11 hold us all! 
 
 Down South the crooked whiskey-still 
 
 Is running like the Devil's mill. 
 
 The nigger skulks in night's disguise, 
 
 And hooks a chicken as he flies. 
 
 Up North there 's murder everywhere, 
 
 And awful doings, I declare. 
 
 Give thanks? How mad it makes me feel 
 
 To think how office-holders steal I 
 
 The taxes paid by you and me 
 
 Is four times bigger 'n they should bCc 
 
 The Fed'ral (iover'mcnt 's all askew ; 
 
 The ballot 's scch a mockery, too I 
 
 Some votes too little, some too much, 
 
 Some not at all — it beats the Dutch ! 
 
258 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And now no man knows what to do, 
 
 Or how is how or who is who. 
 
 Deacon, corruption 's sure to kill I 
 
 This ' glorious Union ' never will, 
 
 I *11 bet a Continental cent, 
 
 Elect another President 1 
 
 Give thanks fer what, I 'd like to know! " 
 
 The deacon answered, sad and low, 
 "Simon, it fills me with surprise 
 Ye don't see where yer duty lies ; 
 Kneel right straight down in all the muss, 
 And thank God that it ain't no wuss ! " 
 
 The American Queen. 
 
 I r, 
 
 ■ 'f 
 
 in 
 
 
 ijtt. . 
 
 • 
 
 ■n 
 
 ! i 
 
 B 
 
 
 B^M^ 
 
 
 MH^l 
 
 
 H 
 
 I 
 
 1 
 
 1. 
 
 COMPENSATION. 
 
 She folded up the worn and mended frock, 
 
 And smoothed it tenderly upon her knee, 
 Then through the soft web of a wee red sock 
 
 She wove the bright wool, musing thoughtfully : 
 " Can this be all ? The outside world so fair, 
 
 I hunger for its green and pleasant ways ; 
 A cripple prisoned in her restless chair 
 
 Looks from her window with a wistful gaze. 
 
 " The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet. 
 
 The paths forbidden are both green and wide ; 
 O God I there is no boon to helpless feet 
 
 So altogether sweet as paths denied. 
 Home is most fair ; bright all my household fires, 
 
 And children are a gift without alloy ; 
 But who would bound the field of their desires 
 
 By the prim hedges of mere fireside joy ? 
 
 " I can but weave a faint thread to and fro, 
 
 Making a frail woof in my baby's sock ; 
 Into the world's sweet tumult I would go. 
 
 At its strong gates my trembling hand would knock." 
 Just then the children came, the father too; 
 
 Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom ; 
 " Dear heart," he whispered, as he nearer drew, 
 
 " How sweet it is within this little room ! 
 
 " God puts my strongest comfort here to draw 
 
 When thirst is great and common wells are dry. 
 Your pure desire is my unerring law, 
 
 Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I ? 
 Home is the pasture where my soul may feed. 
 
 This room a paradise has grown to be ; 
 And only where thc^e patient feet shall lead ^. 
 
 Can it be home to these dear ones and me." I 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 259 
 
 He touched with reverent hand the helpless feet, 
 
 The children crowded close and kissed her hair. 
 " Our mother is so good, and kind, and sweet, 
 
 There 's not another like her anywhere ! " 
 The baby in her low bed opened wide 
 
 The soft blue flowers of her timid eyes, 
 And viewed the group about the cradle-side 
 
 With smiles of glad and innocent surprise. 
 
 The mother drew the baby to her knee 
 
 And, smiling, said : " The stars shine soft to-night ; 
 My world is fair ; its edges sweet to me, 
 
 And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is right." 
 
 THE SADDEST FATE. 
 
 To touch a broken lute. 
 
 To strike a jangled string, 
 To strive with tones forever mute 
 The dear old tunes to sing — 
 What sadder fate couW any heart befall ? 
 Alas I dear child, never 'o sing at all. 
 
 To sigh for pleasures flown, 
 
 To weep for withered flowers, 
 To count the blessings we have known. 
 Lost with the vanished hours — 
 What sadder fate could any heart befall ? 
 Alasl dear child, ne'er to have known them all. 
 
 To dream of love and rest, 
 
 To know the dream has past, 
 To bear within an aching breast 
 Only a void at last — 
 What s.idder fate could any heart befall ? 
 Alas I dear child, ne'er to have loved at all. 
 
 To trust an unknown good. 
 To hope, but all in vain, 
 Over a far-off bliss to brood. 
 Only to find it pain — 
 What sadder fate could any soul befall ? 
 Alas I dear child, never to hope at all. 
 
: 
 
 26o 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 RIGHT AND WRONG. 
 
 Alas ! how hardly things go right ! 
 *T is hard to watcn on a summer's night, 
 For the sigh will come, and the kiss will stay, 
 And the summer's night is a winter's day. 
 
 Alas! how easily things go wrong! 
 A sigh too much or a kiss too long, 
 And there comes a mist and a weeping rain, 
 And life is never tht same again. 
 
 And yet how easily things go right, 
 If the sigh and the kiss of the summer's night 
 Come deep from the soul in the stronger ray 
 That is born in the light of the winter's day. 
 
 And things can never go badly wrong 
 If the heart be true and the love be strong ; 
 For the mist, if it comes, and the weeping rain, 
 "Will be changed by the love into sunshine again. 
 
 WHAT OF THAT? 
 
 ?, 
 
 hit 
 
 itiil 
 
 Tired ! Weil, what of that ? 
 Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease, 
 Fluttering the rose leaves scattered by the breeze ? 
 Come, rouse thee ! work while it is called to-day I 
 Coward, arise ! go forth upon thy way ! 
 
 Lonely ! And what of that ? 
 Some must be lonely I 't is not given to all 
 To feel a heart responsive rise and fall, 
 To blend another life into its own. 
 Work may be done in loneliness. Work on. 
 
 Dark ! Well, and what of that ? 
 Didst fondly dream the sun would never set? 
 Dost fear io lose thy way.^ Take courage yet ! 
 Learn thou to walk by faith and not by sight ; 
 Thy steps will guided be, and guided right. 
 
 Hard ! Well, and what of that ? 
 Didst fancy life one summer holiday, 
 With lessons none to learn, and nought but play? 
 Go, get thee to thy task ! Conquer or die I 
 It must be learnea! Learn it then patiently. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 26 1 
 
 No help I Nay, it 's not so ! 
 Though human help be far, thy God is nigh, 
 Who feeds the ravens, hears his children's cry. 
 He 's near thee, wheresoe'er thy footstejis roam, 
 And he will guide thee, light thee, help thee home. 
 
 "BIDE A WEE, AND DINNA FRET." 
 
 Is the road very dreary ? 
 Patience yet I 
 Rest will be sweeter if thou art aweary, 
 And after the night cometh the morning cheery ; 
 
 Then bide a wee, and dinna fret. 
 
 The clouds have silver lining. 
 Don't forget ; 
 And though he 's hidden, still the sun is ahining. 
 Courage ! instead of tears in vain repining. 
 
 Just bide a wee, and dinna fret. 
 
 With toil and cares unending 
 Art beset ? 
 Bethink thee how the storms from heaven descending 
 Snap the stiff oak, but spare the willow bending, 
 
 And bide a wee, and dinna fret. 
 
 Grief sharper sting doth borrow 
 From regret : 
 But yesterday is gone, and shall its sorrow 
 U*'«fit us for the present and to-morrow } 
 
 Nay ; bide a wee, and dinna fret. 
 
 An over anxious brooding 
 Doth beget 
 A host of fears and fantasies deluding; 
 Then, brother, lest the torments be intruding. 
 Just bide a wee, and dinna fret. 
 Liisure Hour. S. E. G. 
 
 WORK. 
 
 If some great angel spoke to me to-night, 
 In awful language of the unknown land, 
 
 Bidding me choose fr m treasure infinite, 
 From goodly gifts and glories in his hand. 
 
^ik 
 
 262 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 ^ 
 
 \\ >, 
 
 The thing I coveted, what should I take ? 
 
 Fame's wreath of bays ? The fickle world's esteem? 
 Nay, greenest bays may wave on brows that ache, 
 
 And world's applauding; passeth as a dream. 
 Should I choose love to fill my empty hea/t 
 
 With soft, strong sweetness, as in clays of old ? 
 Nay, for love's rapture hath an after smart, 
 
 And on love's rose the thorns are manifold. 
 Should I choose life with long succeeding years? 
 
 Nay, earth's long life is longer time for tears. 
 I would choose work, and never-failing jjower, 
 
 To work without weak hindrance by the way, 
 Without recurrence of the weary hour 
 
 When tired tyrant Nature holds its sway 
 Over the busy brain and toiling hand. 
 
 Ah I if an angel came to me to-night, 
 Speaking in language of the unknown land, 
 
 So would I choose from treasures infinite. 
 But well I know the blessed gift I crave, ' 
 
 The tireless strength for never-ending task, 
 Is not for this life. But beyond the grave 
 
 It may be I shall find the thing I ask; 
 For I believe there is a better land. 
 
 Where will and work and strength go hand in hand. 
 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 THE HARDEST TIME OF ALL. 
 
 There are days of silent sorrow 
 
 In the seasons of our life ; 
 There are wild, despairing moments, 
 
 There are hours of mental strife ; 
 There are times of stony anguish. 
 
 When the tears refuse to fall ; 
 But the waiting time, my brothers, 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 Youth and love are oft impatient, 
 
 Seeking things beyond their reach ; 
 But the heart grows sick of hoping 
 
 Ere it learns what life can teach ; 
 For before the fruit be gathered 
 
 ^Ve must see the blossoms fall ; 
 And the waiting time, my brothers. 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 We can bear the heat of conflict, 
 Though the sudden, crushing blow, 
 
 Beating back our gathered forces, 
 For a moment lay us low ; 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 263 
 
 We may rise again beneath it 
 
 None the weaker for the fall ; 
 But the waiting time, mv brothers, 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 For it wears the eager spirit, 
 
 As the salt waves wear the stone, 
 And the garb of hope grows threadbare 
 
 Till the brightest tints are flown ; 
 Then amid youth's radiant tresses 
 
 Silent snows begin to fall ; 
 Oh 1 the waiting time, my brothers, 
 
 Is the hardest time of all. 
 
 But at last we learn the lesson 
 
 That God knoweth what is best; 
 For with wisdom cometh patience, 
 
 And with patience cometh rest. 
 Yea, a golden thread is shining 
 
 Through the tangled woof of fate ; 
 And our hearts shall thank him meekly, 
 
 That he taught us how to wait. 
 
 Sarah Doudnev Clark. 
 
 AS I'EBBLES IN THE SEA. 
 
 Who shall judge man from his manner, 
 
 Who shall know him by his dress ? 
 Paupers may be fit for palaces, 
 
 Princes fit for nothing else. 
 Crumpled shirt and d'rty jacket 
 
 May beclothe the golden ore 
 Of the deepest thoughts and feelings — 
 
 Satin vest can do no more. 
 
 There are streams of crystal nectar 
 
 Ever flowing out of stone; 
 There are purple beds and golden 
 
 Hidden, crushed, and overthrown ; 
 God, who counts by souls, not dresses, 
 
 Loves and prospers you and me, 
 While he values thrones the highest 
 
 But as pebbles in the sea. 
 
 Man upraised above his fellows 
 
 Oft forgets his fellows then ; 
 Masters — rulers — lords, remember 
 
 That your meanest kind are men 1 
 Men of labor, men of feeling, 
 
 Men of thought and men of fame, 
 Claiming equal rights to sunshine 
 
 In a man's ennobling name. 
 
264 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 There are foam- embroidered oceans, 
 
 There are little wood-clad rills; 
 There are feeble inch-high saplings, 
 
 There are cedars on the hills. 
 God, who counts by souls, not stations, 
 
 Loves and prospers you and me ; 
 For to him all vague distinctions 
 
 Are as pebbles in the sea. 
 
 Toiling hands alone are builders 
 
 Of a nation's wealth and fame ; 
 Titled laziner^s is pensioned, 
 
 Fed and fattened on the same ; 
 By the sweat cf otheri ' foreheads, 
 
 Living -nly o rejoice, 
 While th '' jr man's outraged freedom 
 
 Vainly . ;ts -.oble voice. 
 
 Truth and justice are '"> .,rnal. 
 
 Born with loveliness and light ; 
 Secret wrongs shall never prosper 
 
 While there is a sunny right I 
 God, whose world-wide voice is singing 
 
 Boundless love to you and me, 
 Sinks oppression, with its titles, 
 
 But as pebbles in the sea. 
 
 :' » 
 
 t 
 
 
 ii: 
 1' 
 
 
 >< 
 
 1 
 
 
 Dw' 
 
 1 
 
 
 
 
 ill 
 
 FALSE AND TRUE. 
 
 We grasp a hand, we think it true and strong, 
 We look in eyes where love-light seems to play ; 
 
 The hand we hold clings but to guide us wrong. 
 The light within the eyes gleams to betray. 
 
 We feel a heart beat near our own, close pressed, 
 We think it echoes back love's secret lore, 
 
 But find 't is but a Aw/ — within the breast — 
 Of curious mechanism, nothing more. 
 
 We listen to soft tones from lips which seem 
 
 Too regal even a foe's name to belie; 
 We drink their freshness, and we fondly dream 
 
 That nought can mar our soul's sweet harmony. 
 
 E'en as we dream — forth from the heart's fair gate 
 
 Issue barbed words which pierce us through and through, 
 
 Whilst we, bewildered, find, even though so late, 
 This seal of royalty is earthly too. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 265 
 
 We place our heart's best treasure, trustingly, 
 In the safe keeping of a thing of clay ; 
 
 The trust is broken. Though we do not die, 
 Our faith in hum;*n love shows slow decay. 
 
 We tread the earth to find, where'er we roam, 
 Lips fiiir but subtle, heart-beats quick but cold ; 
 
 Lightnings in eyes which only seem love's home. 
 And treachery even in the hand we hold. 
 
 But is this all of fricndshii), love? Ah, no! 
 
 These well-wrought counterfeits from Satan's hand 
 To me conclusive evidence do show 
 
 That the pure coin is still in good demand. 
 
 And if we seal our hearts, rolling the stone 
 Of cold distrust firmly against the door, 
 
 The whitest angel near love's pearly throne 
 Can roll that stone away, ah I nevermore. 
 
 So, after all, 't is better that we err 
 
 In loving overmuch, though oft deceived, 
 
 Than make our heart a sealed sei)ulchre 
 From which the angel turns away aggrieved. 
 
 PATIENT. 
 
 I WAS not patient in that olden time 
 
 When my unchastened heart began to long 
 For bliss that lay beyond its reach ; my prime 
 
 Was 'vild, imjiulsive, passionate, and strong. 
 I could not wait for happiness and love. 
 
 Heaven-sent, to come and nestle in my breast ; 
 I could not realize that time might prove 
 
 That patient waiting would avail me best. 
 *' Let me be happy now," my heart cried out, 
 
 " In mine own way, and with my chosen lot ; 
 The future is too dark and full of doubt 
 
 For me to tarry, and I trust it not. 
 Take all my blessings, all I am and have, 
 But give that glimpse of heaven before the grave." 
 
 " Ah me 1 " God heard my wayward, selfish cry, 
 
 And, taking pity on my blinded heart, 
 He bade the angel of strong grief draw nigh, 
 
 Who pierced my bosom in its tcnderest part. 
 I drank wrath's wine-cup to the bitter lees. 
 
 With strong amazement and a broken will ; 
 Then, humbled, straightway fell upon my knees. 
 
 And God doth know my heart is kneeling still ; 
 
266 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I have grown patient, seekinp not to choose 
 
 Mine own blind lot, but take that God shall send. 
 
 In which, if what I long for I should lose, 
 
 I know the loss will work some blessed end, — 
 
 Some better fate for mine and mc than I 
 
 Could ever compass underneath the sky. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 He that holds fast the golden mean, 
 And lives contentedly between 
 
 The litile and the great, 
 Feels not the wants that pinch the poor, 
 Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door, 
 
 Embittering all his state. 
 
 \W::.:: 
 
 BEYOND THE HAZE. 
 A Winter Ramble Reverie. 
 
 The road was straight, the afternoon was gray, 
 The frost hung listening in the silent air ; 
 On either hand the rimy fields were bare ; 
 
 Beneath my feet rolled out the long white way. 
 
 Drear as my heart, and brightened by no ray 
 From the wide winter sun, whose disk reclined 
 In distant, copper sullenness, behind 
 
 The broken network of the western hedge — 
 
 A crimson blot upon the fading day. 
 
 Three travellers went Ijefore me, — one alone, 
 Then two together, who their fingers nursed 
 Deep in their pockets, and I watched the first 
 Lapse in the curtain the slow haze had thrown 
 Across the vista which had been my own ; 
 Next vanished the chill comrades, blotted out 
 Like him they followed ; but I did not doubt 
 That there beyond the haze the travellers 
 Walked in the fashion that my sight had known. 
 
 Only " beyond the haze ; " oh, sweet belief! 
 
 That this is also death ; that those we 've kissed 
 Between our sobs are just " beyond the mist ; " 
 
 An easy thought to juggle with to grief! 
 
 The gulf seems measureless, and Death a thief. 
 Can we, who were so high and are so low, 
 So clothed in love, who now in tatters go, 
 
 Echo serenely, "Just beyond the haze," 
 
 And of a sudden find a trite relief ? 
 Cornhill Magazine, \ 
 
 r' UI 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 267 
 
 CONTENT. 
 
 My heart and I but lately were at strife. 
 
 She fell a-longing for a certain thing 
 The which I could not give her, and my life 
 
 Grew sick and weary with her clamoring. 
 God knows I would have given my youth's wide scope 
 
 To buy my heart but one brief, blessed day 
 Of the blind bliss she coveted ; but hope, 
 
 When I appealed to it, turned, dumb, away. 
 Until hope failed, I did not chide my heart, 
 
 But was full tender to her misery, — 
 I knew how hard and bitter was her part ; 
 
 Hut when I saw that good was not for me, 
 I felt that time and tears were vainly spent ; 
 " Heart," said I, " hope is silent ; be content." 
 
 Poor heart I She listened, earnest, humble-wise, 
 
 While my good angel gave her counsel strong. 
 Then from the dust and ashes did arise, 
 
 And through her trembling lips broke forth a song; 
 A soothing song, that grew into a strain 
 
 Of praise for bliss denied as well as given : 
 She sang it then to charm a lingering pain. 
 
 She sings it now for gladness, morn and even. 
 She sings it, seeing on life's garden wall 
 
 Love's deep red roses in the sunshine stir. 
 And singing, passes, envying not at all. 
 
 Content to feel that love is not for her. 
 The roses are another's, bloom and scent, 
 My heart and I have " heart's-ease " — and content. 
 
 CONTENTMENT. 
 
 The banks are all a bustin', Nance, an' things is goin' to smash ; 
 The people sold fur credit whar they 'd oughter sell fur cash. 
 An' winter 's bringin' poverty to everybody's door; 
 The rich can stand it pretty well — hit 's orf ul on the poor. 
 
 The workin'man 's the sufferer, Nance, he 's got no work to do 
 
 An' folks arc goin' to suffer what sufferin' never knew ; 
 
 An' them that 's always " showin' off " to poor folks what they 've 
 
 got. 
 You '11 find, perhaps, that they '11 turn out the poorest of the lot. 
 
 I 've just been thinkin', Nancy Jane, ibout the awful muss. 
 How folks had better live an' raise thar children jist like us; 
 For as I told old Deacon Smith, he seed it all was true; 
 He never in his life had seed two folks like me an' you. 
 
263 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 ^ k. 
 
 3Ul 
 
 i,i: 
 
 Our home 's an old log cabin, Nance, half hidden in the woods; 
 Our family's rich in life an' health, but poor in this "world's 
 
 goods." 
 We hain't no fine lace curtains, or no carpet on the floor, 
 But the sun is always shinin' through the wi'uJow an' the door. 
 
 Our farm is small — we 've got a spring, an' horses, hogs, an' cows; 
 We 've gals to milk, an' cook, an' sew, an' boys to tend the 
 
 ploughs. 
 We 've got no gold in banks that bust, nor owe no man a cent ; 
 I tell you, Nance, the Lord is good, an' we should feel content. 
 
 We're plain an' honest country folks, an' know no "city airs;" 
 We read the Bible every night before we kneel in prayers; 
 We go to church on Sunday, Nance, an* walk jist like the rest, 
 An' live like Christian people ought — we try to do what 's best. 
 
 Our boys are not like city boys, who from their duty shirk. 
 Whose parents raise 'em up to think 'tis a disgrace to work; 
 Our gals ain't like them city gals you will so otten meet. 
 Who ought to help their mothers more, an' run less on the street. 
 
 You don't see Thomas Henry pushin' billiards every night. 
 Or loafin' 'bout the tavern gittin' treated till he 's tight; 
 You don't f.nd him u runnin' round to catch some diunsel's eye. 
 Or courtin' of some gal that *s rich, whose daddy 's about to die. 
 
 Ah, Nance, the time has come at last when pride must have a fall, 
 The folks will find the workin'man 's the life an' prop of all ; 
 The farmer 's independent, Nance, his trade will never spoil 
 So long as he is able with his sons to till the soil. 
 
 The proud aristocratic folks, who sot in fortune's door, 
 
 Who thought they'd never come to want, are busted up an' poor ; 
 
 Their servan'is gone, their horses sold, their houses an' their 
 
 lands, 
 An' everything, except their lives, is in the sheriff's hands. 
 
 Old woman, put your knittin' up ; it 's gittin' purty late, 
 I '11 read about two chapters in the Bible if you '11 wait ; 
 We '11 pray to God before we sleep, as every Christian ought ; 
 An' thank him not for what we want, but what we 've had an' got. 
 
 Will S. Hayes. 
 
 THE WORLD AND L 
 
 Whether my heart be glad or no, 
 
 The summers come, the summers go, 
 The lanes grow dark with dying leaves, 
 Icicles hang beneath the eaves, 
 The asters wither to the snow; 
 
 Thus doth the summer end and go, 
 Whether my life be glad or no. 
 
HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT, 269 
 
 Whether my life be sad or no, 
 
 The winters come, the winters go, 
 The sunshine plays with baby leaves, 
 Swallows build about the eaves. 
 The luvcly wild (lowers bend and blow ; 
 
 'Ihus doth the winter end and go, 
 
 \Vhcther my life be sad or no. 
 
 Yet Mother Nature gives to me 
 A fond and patient sympathy ; 
 In my own heart [ find the charm 
 To make her tender, near, and warm ; 
 'I'hrough summer sunshine, winter snow. 
 She clasps mc, sad or glad or no. 
 
 SATISFIED. 
 
 ' I,-; 
 
 Where moss-made beds are brightest by the river. 
 
 And curtained round with wondrous-woven vines, 
 I lie and watch the water-lilies quiver 
 
 In the soft shadow of the haunted pines, — 
 Li •, as in dreams, amidst the languid laughter 
 
 Of waves at play upon the harbor bar, 
 And iicar the sound of wings that follow after 
 
 The wind who knoweth where the bird-nests are. 
 
 So sw^et the hour, I cannot well remember 
 
 if care has been, or wearying toil or pain, 
 Or life low leaning to a drear December, 
 
 Or vision tortured by a teary rain; 
 The eyes of sorrow have been kissed to sleeping 
 
 Hy lips where many a tender mystery hides, 
 Like music in the merry waters, keeping 
 
 My feet from climbing up the mountain sides. 
 
 Upon my book unread a bee sits sipping 
 
 Wild honey from the fragrant wild-rose mark, 
 And, listening, I can hear the dipping, dipping 
 
 Of light oars piloting a home-bound bark. 
 A new life flows through all the aisles of being ; 
 
 I seem a pulsing portion of the haze 
 That floats an ' floats where saints sing softlier, seeing 
 
 The dawn 01 heaven's own Indian summer days. 
 
 And once again, oh, once again is lying 
 Upon my heart a dainty, dimpled cheek, 
 
 For whose young bloom my lips were ever crying 
 In the old time of which I cannot speak. 
 
270 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 One little word — the first that babies mangle — 
 I liear, and Hush with mother-love and pride, 
 
 Feeling my finpf^rs in a golden tangle 
 Of locks long longed for — and am satisfied. 
 
 Home Journal. Hestek A. Benedict. 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 I NOTE this morning how the snnshine fallcth, 
 Jnst aA it fell one morning long ago; 
 
 A white t!ovc walks the window-ledge, soft cooing; 
 The watcis murmur in their ebb and flow. 
 
 I! '.1 
 
 The aspen whispers to the autumn breezes, 
 I See the golden-rod op sloping hills ; 
 
 I c.itch the odors of the orown leaves dying, 
 And hear the babble of the shrunken rills. 
 
 I listen to some notes of children's l.iughter, 
 Smiling to tV-ink how late I was a child — 
 
 A happy elf with checks of sun-kissed crimson, 
 And curls of tawny gold, wind-tossed and wild. 
 
 The very winds stir memories with their wailing, 
 The very clou(!s that dot iho azure sky, 
 
 The heliotrope within my window blooming, 
 Even the swallows swiftly skimming by. 
 
 On a dead nak that lifts its leafless branches 
 A raven sits, and croaks with fretful tone, 
 
 Like some (»ld prophet who with mystic lore foresees 
 The evil that he sees with sob and moan. 
 
 A sense of pain, h.ilf hidden, half defined, 
 Stirs ill my heart an unborn babe of sorrow 
 
 Whose birth, unwelcome and unasked, with wail 
 Shall usher in a darker, .sadder morrow. 
 
 And I shall meet it as T met the d.ay departed, 
 With pride unbending and an iron will, 
 
 That holds me steadfast in the path I chose, but hated, 
 Yet haling, love, .and loving, loathe it still. 
 
 I see and hear ; T know I am not dreaming ; 
 
 And still somehow \ cannot make it seem 
 But that I sleep, and hear and see things diudy. 
 
 As one docs often in a troubled dream. 
 
Benedict. 
 
 HOPE, 
 
 f.NCO URA GF.A 1EN T, 
 
 COXTEXT.\fF.NT. 2 7 1 
 
 Ah. 
 
 well ! what matter, since 
 
 so 
 
 soon for all 
 
 Our stniftfjlcs and cur dreams 
 
 will have an ending, 
 
 And 
 
 our tired hearts and brains 
 
 shall rest for ave 
 
 1» 
 
 that blest land tu which 
 
 our feet arc tending ? 
 
 
 
 
 Garmct U. Freeman. 
 
 GOING SOFTLY. 
 
 She makes no m''»an above her faded flowers, 
 
 She will not vainly strive against her lot, 
 Patient she wears away the slow, sad hours. 
 
 As if the ray they had were (|uite forgot ; 
 While stronger fingers snatch away the sword, 
 
 And lighter footsteps pass her on the ways, 
 Yielding submissive to the stern award 
 
 That said she must go softly all her days. 
 
 She knows the pulse is beating rpiickly yet. 
 
 She knows the dreani is sweet and subtle still. 
 That, struggling from the cloud of past regret, 
 
 Ready for conflict, live Hope, Joy, and Will ; 
 So soon, so soon to veil the eager eyes, 
 
 To ilull the throbbing ear to blame or praise, 
 So soon to crush re-awakening svnipathies. 
 
 And teach them she goes softly all her days. 
 
 She will not speak or move beneath the doom. 
 
 She knows she had her day and Hung her cast. 
 The loser scarce the laurel may assume. 
 
 Nor evening think the noondav glow can last. 
 Only, oh youth and love, as in your pride, 
 
 Of joyous triumph your gay notes you raise. 
 Throw one kind glance and word, where, at your side, 
 
 She crccp.s, who must go softly all her days. 
 
 "EN VOYAGK." 
 
 WlIIcnF.VEU way the wind dotii blow, 
 Some heart is glail to have it so j 
 Then, blow it east, or blow it west. 
 The wind that blows, that wind is best. 
 
 My little craft sails not alone; 
 A thousand fleets from every zone 
 Are out upon a thousand seas ; 
 What blows for one a favoiing brczc 
 Might dash another with the shock 
 Of doom upon some hidden rock. 
 
272 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And so I do not dare to pray 
 
 For wiiidl to waft me on my way, 
 
 But leave it to a higher Will 
 
 To stay or speed me, trusting still 
 
 That all is well, and sure that He 
 
 "Who launched my bark will sail with me 
 
 Through storm and calm, and will not fail, 
 
 Whatever breezes may prevail, 
 
 To land mc, every peril past, 
 
 Within the sheltered haven at last. 
 
 Then, whatsoever wind doth blow. 
 My heart is glad to have it so ; 
 And, blow it east, or blow it west, 
 The wind that blows, that wind is best. 
 
 Caroline A. Mason. 
 
 WHAT HOUSE TO LIKE. 
 
 Some love the glow of outward show. 
 
 Some love mere wealth and try to win it ; 
 The house to me may lowly be, 
 
 If I but like the people \\\ it. 
 What's all the gold that glitters cold. 
 
 When linked to hard or haughty feeling ? 
 Whate'er we 're told, the noble gold 
 
 Is truth of heart and manly dealing. 
 Then let them seek, whose minds are weak, 
 
 Mere fashion's smile and try to win it; 
 The house to me may lowly be, 
 
 If I but like the people in it. 
 
 A lowly roof may give us proof 
 
 That lowly flowers are often fairest; 
 And trees whose bark is hard and dark 
 
 May yield us fruit and bloom the rarest. 
 There 's worth as sure 'neath garments poor 
 
 As eVr adorned a loftier staiion ; 
 And minds as just as those, we trust. 
 
 Whose claim is but of wealth's creation. 
 Then let them seek, whose minds arc weak, 
 
 Mere fashion's smile, and try to win it j 
 The house to me may lowly be. 
 
 If I but like the people m it. 
 
 TIRED OUT. 
 
 He does well who does his best j 
 Is he weary ? let him rest. 
 Brothers I I have done my best, 
 I am weary — let me rest. 
 
A. Mason. 
 
 HOPE, ENCOURAGEMENT, CONTENTMENT. 273 
 
 After toiling oft in vain, 
 IJafHed, yet to struggle fain, 
 After toiling long, to gain 
 Little good with niickic pain, 
 Let me rest. But lay me low 
 Where the hedge-side roses blow, 
 Where the little daisies grow, 
 Where the winds a-maying go. 
 Where the footpath rustics plod, 
 Where the breeze-bowed poplars nod. 
 Where the old woods worship God, 
 Where his pencil paints the sod, 
 Where the wedded throstle sings, 
 Where the young bird tries his wings, 
 Where the wailing plover swings. 
 Near the runlet's rushing springs ! 
 Where, at times, the tempests roar, 
 Shaking distant sea and shore. 
 Still will rave old I5arncsdale o'er, 
 To be heard by me no more ! 
 There, beneath the breezy west, 
 Tired and thaid<ful, kt me test, 
 Like a child that slctpcth best 
 On its mother's gentle breast. 
 
 iS 
 
'"mT" 
 
PART X. 
 
 %ifCy mdigtott, anti SDeatf^'^e^ a^pioiterp. 
 
■ I 
 
 Sf « 
 
 Resembles life "what once was held of lights 
 Too ample in itself for human sii^ht ? 
 An absolute selff an element unf:;roitndedl 
 All that we see, all colors of all shade 
 
 By encroach of darkness made? 
 Is very life, my consciousness, unbounded ? 
 Ami all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath 
 A war-cmbracc of wrestling life and death f 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
PART X. 
 
 %ifc, lUriigton, anH Dcatft'g <sx^^^tttp. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 What is life ? 
 
 'T is a beautiful shell 
 
 Thrown up by eternity's flow 
 
 On time's bank of (|uicksands to dwell, 
 
 And a moment its loveliness show ; 
 
 Gone back to its element grand 
 
 Is the billow that washed it ashore. 
 
 See I another now washes the strand ! 
 
 And the beautiful shell is nu more. 
 
 MY AIM. 
 
 I LIVE for those who love me, 
 
 For those who know me true, 
 For the heavens that bend above mc, 
 
 And the good that I can do; 
 For the cause that needs assistance, 
 For the wrongs that lack resistance, 
 For the future in the distance, 
 
 And the good that I can do. 
 
 Tiio.M.vs Guthrie 
 
 THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. 
 
 Across the rapid stream of seventy years 
 The slender bridge of human life is thrown; 
 
 The j)ast and future form its mouldering j)iers. 
 The present moment is its frail keystone. 
 
I' 
 
 ■ 'i 
 
 f ' ■ 
 
 278 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 From " dust thou art " the arch begins to rise, 
 " To (hist " the fashion of its form descends, 
 
 '• Shalt thou return," the higher curve implies, 
 In which the first to the last lowness bends. 
 
 Seen by youth's magic light upon that arch, 
 How lovely does each far-off scene appear ! 
 
 But ah I how changed when on the onward march 
 Our weary footsteps bring the vision near I 
 
 'Twas fabled that beneath the rainbow's foot 
 A treasure lay, the dreamer to bewitch ; 
 
 And many wasted in the vain pursuit 
 The golden years that would have made them rich. 
 
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 So where life's arch of many colors leads, 
 The heart expects rich wealth of joy to find ; 
 
 But in the distance the bright ho])e recedes, 
 And leaves a cold, gray waste of care behind. 
 
 A sunlit stream upon its bosom takes 
 The inverted shadow of a bridge on high, 
 
 And thus the arch in air and water makes 
 One perfect circle to the gazer's eye. 
 
 So 't is with life ; the things that do appear 
 Are fleeting shadows on time's passing tide, 
 
 Cast by the sunshine of a larger sphere 
 
 From viewless things that changelessly abide. 
 
 The real is but the half of life ; it needs - 
 
 The ideal to make a perfect whole ; 
 The sphere of sense is incomplete, and pleads 
 
 For closer union with the sphere of soul. 
 
 A}\ things of use are bridges that conduct 
 
 To things of faith, which give them truest worth ; 
 
 And Christ's own parables do us instruct 
 That heaven is but a counterpart of earth. 
 
 The pier that rests upon this shore *s the same 
 As that which stands upon the farther bank ; 
 
 And fitness for our duties here will frame 
 A fitness for the joys of higher rank. 
 
 Oh ! dark were life without heaven's sun to show 
 T.ie likeness of the other world in this ; 
 
 And bare and poor would be our lot below 
 Without the shadow of a world of bliss. 
 
 Then let us, passing o'er life's fragile arch, 
 Regard it as a means, and not an end ; 
 
 As but the path of faith on which we march ' 
 To where all glories of our being tend. ' 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 279 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 A BUSY dream, forgot^f^n ere it fades ; 
 
 A vapor, melting into air away ; 
 Vain liopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades, 
 
 A checkered labyrinth of night and day — 
 This is our life ; a rapid, surging flood, 
 
 Where each wave haunts its fellow ; on they press ; 
 To-day is yesterday ; and Hope's young bud 
 
 Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness; 
 Still on they press, and we are borne along, 
 
 Forgetting and forgotten ; trampling down 
 The living and the dead in that fierce throng, 
 
 With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown, 
 And little care for others, right or wrong, 
 
 So we in iron selfishness stand strong. 
 
 ! ) 
 
 •4 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 (From the Spanish.) 
 
 Oh ! let the soul its slumber break, 
 Arouse its senses and awake. 
 
 To see how soon 
 Life, with its glory, glides away, 
 And the stern footsteps of decay 
 
 Come rolling on. 
 
 And while we eye the rolling tide 
 Down which our flowing minutes glide 
 
 Away so fast. 
 Let us the present hour employ, 
 And dream each future dream of joy 
 
 Already past. 
 
 Let no vain hope deceive the mind; 
 No happier let us hope to find 
 
 To-morrow than to-day. 
 Our golden dreams of yore were bright : 
 Like them, the present shall delight ; 
 
 Like them, decay. 
 
 Our lives like hasting streams must be. 
 That into one engulfing sea 
 
 Are doomed to fall, — 
 The sea of death, whose waves roll on 
 O'er king and kingdom, crown and throne. 
 
 And swallow all. 
 
28o 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 .' 1 1 
 
 i i 
 
 Alike the river's lordly tide, 
 Alike the humble rivukt's glide, 
 
 To that sad wave ; 
 Death levels poverty and pride, 
 And rich and poor sleep side by side 
 
 Within the grave. 
 
 Our birth is but the starting-place, 
 Life is the running of the race, 
 
 And death the goal ; 
 There all those glittering toys arc brought: 
 The path alone of all unsought 
 
 Is found of all. 
 
 Say, then, how poor and little wirth 
 Are all those glittering toys of ciirth 
 
 That lure us here ! 
 Dreams of a sleep that death must break : 
 Alas ! before it bids us wake, 
 
 Ye disappear I 
 Ediuhitrgh Rcviciv, 
 
 Note. —Compare with Longfellow's tninslation of " Coplas de Marrique" 
 by Don Jorge Manrique. 
 
 THROUGH LIFE. 
 
 We slight the gifts that every season bears, 
 And let them fall unheeded from our grasp, 
 In our great eagerness to reach and clasp 
 
 The promised treasure of the coming years ; 
 
 Or else we mourn some great good passed away. 
 And, in the shadow of our grief shut in, 
 Refuse the lesser good we yet might win. 
 
 The offered peace and gladness of to-day. 
 
 So through the chambers of our life we pass, 
 And leave them one by one and never stav. 
 Not knowing how much pleasantness there was 
 In each, until the closing of the door 
 
 Has sounded through the house ;ind died away, 
 And in our hearts we sigh, " Forevermore I " i 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
 A CHARACTER AND A QUESTION. 
 
 A DUHIOUS, strange, uncomprchended life, 
 A roll of riddles with no answer found ; 
 A sea-like soul which plunnnet cannot sound, 
 
 Torn with belligerent winds at mutual strife. 
 
 .1 11 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 28 1 
 
 The god ill him hath taken unto wife 
 A daughter of tlic i)it, and, strongly bound 
 In cuiiii of snake-like hair about him wound, 
 
 Dies, straining hard to raise the severing knilc. 
 
 For such a sunken soul, what room ir, heaven ? 
 For such a soaring soul, what place in hell ? 
 Can those desires be danmeil, those doings shriven, 
 Or in some lone mid-region must he dwell 
 lorcver? Lo ! (lod sitteth with the seven 
 Stars in his han 1, and shall not he judge well ? 
 
 T/ie Spectator. 
 
 WITH THE TIDE. 
 
 Wavk by wave o'er the sandy bar, 
 
 Up to the coast lights, glimmering wan. 
 Out of the darkness deep and far, 
 
 Slowly the tide came creeping on. 
 Through the clamor (»f billowy strife 
 
 Another voice went wailing thin ; 
 The first faint cry of a new-born life 
 
 Broke on the night — and the tide was in. 
 
 Wave Ijy wave o'er the sandy bar, 
 
 15ack again from the sleeping town, 
 Back to the darkness deep and far. 
 
 Slowly the tide went dropping down. 
 Silence lay on the chamber of death ; 
 
 Silence lay on the land about ; 
 The last low flutter of weary breath 
 
 Fell on the night — and tlie tide was out. 
 
 
 TWO PICTURES. 
 
 Somehodv's heart is gay. 
 
 And somebody's heart is sad ; 
 For lights shine out across the way, 
 
 And a door with crape is clad. 
 Sadness and gladness alike 
 
 Are dwelling side by side. 
 Perhaps the death of an early one, 
 
 And the crowning of a bride. 
 
 Bright eyes are filled with mirth, 
 
 Pale faces bend in prayer. 
 And hearts JK-side the household hearth 
 
 Arc crushed by stout despair ; 
 
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 THE HUMBLE/? POETS. 
 
 Ah, sorrow and hope and joy 
 Are parted by thinnest walls ; 
 
 But on the hearts of the thoughtless ones 
 No shadow of sorrow falls i 
 
 No thoughts of the funeral train 
 
 Come to the festive throng ; 
 No hopes that the past will come again 
 
 To the anguished hearts belong ; 
 The future 's a sunny sea 
 
 To the lovers of joy and mirth ; 
 But the past alone to those who weep 
 
 For the sundered ties of eart'i. 
 
 \ li 
 
 Somebody's heart is gay, 
 
 And somebody's heart is sad ; 
 For the lights are bright across the way, 
 
 .* nd a door with crape is clad. 
 Sadness and gladness alike 
 
 Confront us on every side ; 
 A wealth of smiles and a flood of tears, 
 
 With hope and sorrow allied ! 
 
 M;^;' 
 
 WHY IS IT SO? 
 
 Some find work where some find rest, 
 And so the weary world goes on ; 
 
 I sometimes wonder which is best : 
 The answer comes when life is gone. 
 
 Some eyes sleep where some eyes wake, 
 And so the dreary night hours go ; 
 
 Some hearts beat where some hearts break : 
 I often wonder why 't is so. 
 
 Some wills faint where some wills fight — 
 Some love the tent and some the field ; 
 
 I often wonder who are right, 
 The ones who strive or the ones who yield. 
 
 Some hands fold where other hands 
 
 Are lifted bravely in the strife ; 
 And so through ages and through lands 
 
 Move on the two extremes of life. 
 
 «; H 
 
 11:^ 
 
 Some feet halt where some feet tread 
 In tirelp... march a thorny way ; 
 
 Some stn.jrie on where some have fled ; 
 Some seek where others shun the fray. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 283 
 
 Some swords rust where others clash, 
 Some fall back where others move on, 
 
 Some flags furl where others flash, 
 Until the battle has been won. 
 
 Some sleep on while others keep 
 
 The vigils of the true and brave ; 
 They will not rest till roses creep 
 
 Around their names above a grave. 
 
 I 
 
 WHAT HAVE I DONE? 
 
 I LAY my finger on Time'is wrist to score 
 The forward-surging moments as they roll ; 
 
 Each pulse seems quicker than the one before ; 
 And lo ! my days pile up against my soul 
 
 As clouds pile up against the golden sun ; 
 
 Alas ! What have I done ? What have I done ? 
 
 I never steep the rosy hours in sleep, 
 Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt; 
 
 No idle hands into my bosom creep ; 
 And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip, 
 
 So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run ; 
 
 Alas ! What have I done ? What have I done ? 
 
 I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers. 
 Or scorned the music of the flowing rills. 
 
 Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours ; 
 Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills, 
 
 Unstarred by light of mighty triumphs won; 
 
 Alas 1 What have I done ? What have I done ? 
 
 Be still, my soul ; restrain thy lips from woe ! 
 
 Cease thy lament I for life is but the flower ; 
 The fruit comes after death ; how canst thou know 
 
 The roundness of its form, its depth of power ? 
 Death is life's morning. When thy work s begun, 
 Then ask thyself — What yet is to be done ? 
 
 Lillian Blanche Fearing. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 (A Literary Curiosity.) 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs of an hour ? 
 Life 's a short summer — man is but a flower. 
 By turns we catch the fatal breath and die ; 
 The cradle and the tomb, alas I how nigh. 
 
 [ Young. 
 
 \Dr. Johnson. 
 
 {Pope. 
 
 [Prior. 
 
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 284 
 
 TI/E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 To be better far than not to be, [Seu'el/. 
 
 Though all man's life may seem a tragedy ; [S/>rnccr. 
 
 But light cares speak when mighty griefs are dumb — [Danjcl. 
 The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 
 
 [Sir Walter Raleigh. 
 Thy fate is the common fate of all ; [Longfelloiv. 
 
 Unmingled joys here no man befall ; [Southwell. 
 
 Nature to each allots his proper sphere, [Congrevc. 
 
 Fortune makes folly her peculiar care. [Churchill. 
 
 Custom does often reason overrule, \Rochester. 
 
 And throw a cruel sunshine on a fool. [Armstrong. 
 
 Live well ; how long or short permit to Heaven. \J\Iitjn. 
 
 They who forgive most shall be most forgiven. [Bailey. 
 
 Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face — [French, 
 Vile intercourse where virtue has no place ; [Somerville. 
 
 Then keep each passion down, however dear, [Thompson. 
 
 Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear. [Byron. 
 
 Her sensual snares let faithless pleasure lay, [Smollett. 
 
 With craft and skill to ruin and betray : [Crabbe. 
 
 Soar not too high to fall, but stoop to rise ; [Massiitger. 
 
 We masters grow of all that we despise. [Croviley. 
 
 Oh, then, renounce that impious self-esteem, [Beattie. 
 
 Riches have wings and grandeur is a dream. [Cow/)er. 
 
 Think not ambition wise because 't is brave, 
 
 [Sir William Davenant. 
 
 [Gray. 
 [ Willis. 
 [Addison. 
 [Dryden, 
 [Francis Quarles. 
 [ Watkins. 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave ; 
 
 What is ambition ? 'T is a glorious cheat. 
 
 Only destructive to the brave and great. 
 
 What *s all the gaudy glitter of a crown ? 
 
 The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 
 
 How long we live, not years, but actions tell ; 
 
 That man lives twice who lives the first life well. [Flerrick. 
 
 Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 
 
 [ William Mason. 
 Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend. [/////. 
 
 The trust that 's given guard, and to yourself be just, [Dana. 
 For live we how we may, yet die we must. [Shaksfeare. 
 
 Mrs. H. a. Deming. 
 
 Note. — Accompanying this is a statement that a year was occupied in 
 searching for and fitting the lines in this remarkable mosaic from English 
 and American poets. 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 Sometimes I smile, sometimes I sigh, 
 
 But mostly sorrow fills my heart ; 
 The present and the future lie. 
 
 Like two grim shadows, just apart. 
 I change as often as the clouds. 
 
 That on a gusty morning run 
 In cold and sad and solemn crowds 
 
 To bar and blind the faithful sun. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 285 
 
 Why come these thoughts in baleful forms 
 
 To darken life's tjo fleeting hours, 
 E'en as the summer's sullen storms 
 
 That sob their gloom away in showers ? 
 I cannot smile as others smile, 
 
 Nor yet be merry half so long ; 
 For sorrow fills me even while 
 
 I yearn to sing a joyous song. 
 
 The knowledge that my youth is gone 
 
 Broods ever darkly on the mind ; 
 I look, as some poor hapless one, 
 
 For what he needs but cannot find. 
 I long in vain for peace or rest, 
 
 And mourn each lost and faded scene. 
 Like some poor bird that finds its nest 
 
 All vacant where its young had been. 
 
 Pain waits on pleasure evermore. 
 
 To blanch its blush, to dim its light ; 
 To mock it when its dreams are o'er, 
 
 When all its charms have taken flight. 
 And thus it is we canno^ sing. 
 
 Or long be joyous, when we 're old ; 
 When summer hours have taken wing. 
 
 The flowers must perish in the cold I 
 
 AT THE LOOM. 
 
 She stood at the clumsy loom. 
 
 And wove with a careless song ; 
 For her task would soon be done, 
 
 And the day was bright and long ; 
 So she worked at her pattern, roses red 
 And trailing vines ; but she tlaought instead 
 Where the sweetbrier grew in the distant wood, 
 And of pleasant shade where the old oak stood. 
 
 She stood at the stately loom, 
 
 And wove with a girlish grace ; 
 And her eyes grew tender and sweet 
 
 As she wrought in the web apace. 
 Strong men mounted with lance and spear. 
 Then a chase with hounds and a frightened deer ; 
 But she thought the while of her lover knight, 
 And whispered softly, " He comes to-night." 
 
 She stood at the tireless loom. 
 
 And wove with a steady hand ; 
 And a watchful eye on the twain 
 
 Without, at play in the sand. 
 
286 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 i iii 
 
 Stripes of warm, dark colors she wrought, 
 And every thread with a hope was fraught ; 
 Some day, she thought, my lad will be great, 
 And my bonnie lass a nobleman's mate. 
 
 She stood at the dusty loom. 
 
 Bent, and wrinkled, and old, 
 But the shuttle she feebly plied 
 
 Dropped from her nerveless hold. 
 " Ah, well I whom have 1 to work for now ? " 
 The old dame said, with shaded brow. 
 ** But I 've seen the time when I worked with the best ; " 
 And she dropped her chin on her wrinkled breast. 
 
 At a silent, invisible loom. 
 
 Always, morning and night, 
 With tender care wrought one 
 
 Who was hidden from human sight. 
 Tangled and broken threads wrought he. 
 And his finished web was fair to see ; 
 For he gathered the hopes that were broker in twain, 
 And wrought them into his web again. 
 
 Public Opinion. 
 
 V 
 
 I 
 
 This mortal body that I wear 
 
 Will soon return to whence it came. 
 Resolved into the earth and air 
 
 By foul decay or purer flame. 
 The elements again will take 
 
 The atoms that they have bestowed, 
 And give them in their turn to make 
 
 Some other thinking soul's abode. 
 
 To die — is it another birih ? 
 
 Or is it but an endless swoon ? 
 Will we still roam the plains of earth. 
 
 Or climb the mountains of the moon? 
 Will memory still retain its hold 
 
 Upon the sad and sunny past. 
 Or in the eternal future's mould 
 
 Are all the precious metals cast ? 
 
 Will love and truth and honor live. 
 And hate and wrong and falsehood die ? 
 
 Will only grace and beauty give 
 Their glory to the by and oy ? 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 287 
 
 Or will the fruits and flowers and weeds 
 Still rankly flourish side by side, — 
 
 The .aurels of heroic deeds 
 Twined with the poisonous vine of pride ? 
 
 The child I danced upon my knee, 
 
 The sunlit hair and heaven-hued eyes, 
 "Whose laughter filled my heart with glee, 
 
 My sweetest joy, my dearest prize, — 
 The years of grief have reached a score, 
 
 Yet still her soft embrace I miss, — 
 Will she upon the other shore 
 
 Welcome me with a spirit-kiss ? 
 
 My boy grown near to man's estate, 
 
 My wife whose smile had blest the years. 
 Victims of a relentless fate — 
 
 I yielded to the grave with tears. 
 And like a seared and blasted tree, 
 
 Alone I stand where tempests lower; 
 The joys of earth have fled from me, 
 
 But yet I fear the parting hour. 
 
 Great Lord of Life, Creative Power, 
 
 If thou canst hear thy creaiares' call, 
 Before that dark impending hour 
 
 Disclose to me the mighty Ail. 
 Unlock the volume sealed so long, 
 
 The mystery of death and pain, 
 The cause and final doom of wrong. 
 
 That all the race have sought in vain. 
 
 Yet stay ; I would not read the book ; 
 
 Too awful might its secret be 
 For mortal eyes to rashly look 
 
 Upon the dreadful mystery. 
 Let me grope on through life's dark maze. 
 
 And blindly bow before thy will. 
 That o'er my few remaining days 
 
 The light of hope may linger still. 
 
 New York Commercial Advertiser. F. A. Le H. 
 
 
 i'i^ 
 
 m 
 
 A QUERY. 
 
 Oh the wonder of our life, 
 Pain and pleasure, rest and strife, 
 Mystery of mysteries. 
 Set twixt two eternities I 
 
288 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 !i H 
 
 I.o, the moments come and go, 
 
 E'en as sparks, and vanish so ; 
 
 Flash from darkness into light, 
 
 Quick as thought are quenched in night. 
 
 With an import grand and strange 
 Are they fraught in ceaseless change 
 As they post away ; each one 
 Stands eternally alone. 
 
 The scene more fair than words can say, 
 1 gaze upon and go my way ; 
 I turn, another glance to claim — 
 Something is changed, 't is not the sanie. 
 
 The purple flush on yonder fell, 
 The tinkle of that cattle-bell, 
 Came, and have never come before, 
 Go, and are gone forevermore 
 
 Our life is held as with a vice, 
 "We cannot do the same thing twice ; 
 Once we may, but not again ; 
 Only memories remain. 
 
 "What if memories vanish too, 
 And the past be lost to view ; 
 Is it all for nought that I 
 Heard and saw and hurried by ? 
 
 "Where are childhood's merry hours, 
 Bright with sunshine, crossed with showers? 
 Are they dead, and can they never 
 Come again to life forever ? 
 
 No — 't is false, I surely trow ; 
 Though awhile they vanish now ; 
 Every passion, deed, and thought 
 "Was not born to come f J nought! 
 
 "Will the past then come again, 
 Rest and pleasure, strife and pain, 
 All the heaven and all the hell? 
 Ah, we know not : God can tell. 
 
 Good Words, 
 
 ; S 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 i 5 
 
 (I \% 
 
 What is the life of man ? A passing shade 
 Upon the changeful mirror of old Time ; 
 
 A sear leaf, long ere autumn comes decayed ; 
 A plant or tree that scantly reaches prime ; 
 
UFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTEKY. 289 
 
 A dew-drop of the morning gone ere noon ; 
 
 A meteor expiring in its fall ; 
 A blade of grass that springs to wither soon ; 
 
 A dying taper on a darksome pall ; 
 The foam upon the torrent's whirling wave; 
 
 A bird that flutters on a drooping wing ; 
 A shadowy spectre o'er an open grave ; 
 
 A morning-glory's moments in the spring ; 
 A breakin 5 bubble on a rushing stream ; 
 A sunset after storm, an erring angel's dream. 
 
 What is this death we fear ? The peaceful close 
 
 Of stormy life — of reckless passion's sway ; 
 The veil that mantles all our cares and woes ; 
 
 The heavenly ending of an earthly day: 
 The crown of time well spent ; the portal liir 
 
 Which opes the way to never-ending joy ; 
 It sets the captive spirit free as an, 
 
 From all the fetters which on earth annoy. 
 What is this death? The sleep the pilgrim takes 
 
 After much weary travail he has known, 
 And whence with renovated power he wakes, 
 
 His soul more mighty for its slumber grown j 
 The glorious conquest over human ill ; 
 A spirit's joy which death can never kill. 
 
 LIVING. 
 
 We can only live once ; and death's terrors 
 
 With life's bowers and roses entwine. 
 And our lives wou'd be darkened by errors 
 
 Did we even, like cats, possess nine ! 
 They would be, perhaps, all of them wasted. 
 
 And recklessly squandered away. 
 And not half of the joys would be tasted 
 
 That one life can embrace in a daj'. 
 
 Let the lives th- 1 we live be worth living ; 
 
 Let the days that we spend be well spent; 
 Let us save for the pleasure of giving. 
 
 And not borrow at fifty per cent ; 
 Let us never cease loving and learning. 
 
 And use life for its noblest of ends ; 
 Then when dust to its dust is returning. 
 
 We shall live in the hearts of our friends. 
 
 London Fun, 
 
 19 
 
290 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 MIDGES IN THE SUNSHINE. 
 
 " r 
 
 If I could see with a midge's eye, 
 
 Or think with a midge's brain, 
 I wonder what I 'd sav of the world. 
 
 With all its joy ana pain. 
 Would my seven brief hours of mortal life 
 
 Seem long as seventy years, 
 As I danced in the flickering sunshine 
 
 Amid my tiny peers ? 
 Should I feel the slightest hope or care 
 
 For the midges yet to be ; 
 Or think I died before my time, 
 
 If I died at half-past three 
 Instead of living till set of sun 
 
 On the breath of the summer wind ; 
 Or deem that the world was made for me 
 
 And all my little kind ? 
 Perhaps if I did I 'd know as much 
 
 Of Nature's mighty plan. 
 And what it meant for good or ill, 
 
 As that larger midge, a man ! 
 
 WHO GATHER GOLD. 
 
 Scribner's Magazine. 
 
 They soon grow old who grope for gold 
 In marts where all is bought and sold : 
 Who live for self and on some shelf 
 In darkened vaults hoard up their pelf ; 
 Cankered and crusted o'er with mould — 
 For them their youth itself is old. 
 
 They ne'er grow old who gather gold 
 
 Where spring awakes and flowers unfold ; 
 
 Where suns arise in joyous skies, 
 
 And fill the sou) within their eyes. 
 
 For them the immortal bards have sung ; 
 
 For them old age itself is young. 
 
 -♦— 
 
 FLOTSAM AND JETSAM. 
 
 The sea crashed over the grim gray rocks, 
 
 It thundered beneath the height, 
 
 It swept by reef and sandy dune, 
 
 It glittered beneath the harvest moon 
 
 That bathed it in yellow light. 
 
 i r 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S \lYSTERY. 29 1 
 
 Shell and seaweed and sparkling stone 
 It flung on the golden sand. 
 Strange relics torn from its deepest caves ^ 
 Sad trophies of wild victorious waves — 
 It scattered upon the strand. 
 
 Spars that had looked so strong and true , 
 When the gallant ship was launched, 
 Shattered and broken, flung to the shore, 
 "While the tide in its deep, triumphant roar, 
 Rang the dirge for old wounds long stancned. 
 
 Pretty trifles that love had brought 
 
 From many a foreign clime, 
 
 Snatched by the storm from the clinging clasp 
 
 Of hands that the lonely will never grasp, 
 
 While the world yet counteth time. 
 
 Back, back to its depths went the ebbing tide, 
 Leaving its stores to rest 
 Unsought and unseen in the silent bay, 
 To be gathered again, ere close of day. 
 To the ocean's mighty breast. 
 
 Kinder than n.an art thou, O sea ; 
 Frankly we give our best, — • 
 
 Truth, and hope, and love, and faith. 
 Devotion that challenges time and death, — 
 Its sterling worth to test. 
 
 We fling them down at our darling's feet. 
 Indifference leaves them there ; 
 The careless footstep turns aside, 
 Weariness, changefulness, scorn, or pride, 
 Brings little of thought or care. 
 
 No tide of human feeling turns ; 
 Once ebbed, love never flows ; 
 The pitiful wreckage of time and strife, 
 The flotsam and jetsam of human life, 
 No saving reflux knows. 
 All the Year Round. 
 
 V, 'it 
 
 i 
 
 hW,%\ 
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 Slowly, steadily, under the moon, 
 Swings the tide in its old-time way ; 
 
 Never too late and never too soon, 
 And the evening and morning make up the day. 
 
292 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Slowly, steadily, over the sands. 
 And over the rocks they fall and flow ; 
 
 And this wave has touched a dead man's hands, 
 And that one has seen a face we know. 
 
 They have borne the pood ship on her way. 
 Or buried her deep from love and light ; 
 
 And yet, as they sink at our feet to-day. 
 Ah, who shall interpret their message aright ? 
 
 For their separate voices of grief and cheer 
 Are blended at last in one solemn tone ; 
 
 And only this song of the waves I hear, — 
 " Forever and ever His will be done 1 " 
 
 Slowly, steadily, to and fro, 
 
 Swings our life in its weary way; 
 
 Now at its ebb and now at its flow, 
 And the evening and morning make up the day. 
 
 Sorrow and happiness, peace and strife, 
 Fear and rejoicing, its moments know ; 
 
 How from the discords of such a life 
 Can the clear music of heaven flow ? 
 
 Yet to the ear of God it swells, 
 And to the blessed round the throne, 
 
 Sweeter than chime of silver bells, — 
 " Forever and ever His will be done I " ' 
 
 m 
 
 ELIAB ELIEZER. 
 
 The Reverend EHab Eliezer 
 
 Sat toasting his shins by the grate ; 
 
 His ponderous brain busy musing 
 On man's most pitiable state. 
 
 Abroad the storm-king was raging. 
 
 And the snow was fast whitening the ground ; 
 But its fury disturbed not Eliab, 
 
 In his leverie so deep and profound. 
 
 For he thought how wicked and sinful 
 
 Was poor fallen man at the best ; 
 And even Eliab Eliezer 
 
 Was almost as bad as the rest I 
 
 And he piously groaned in the spirit. 
 At the flesh which so leads us astray ; 
 
 " There 's nothing that 's good," saith EHab, 
 " In these weak, worthless vessels of clay. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEA Til ' S MYS TER Y. 293 
 
 " Yea; man is a poor, sinful creature 
 
 Even wlien he tries to do riglit ; 
 But when he does not, and to ruin 
 
 Willing rushes, how dreadful the sight 1 
 
 " Now, there 's swearing Meg, at the corner. 
 
 Her case shows plainly, I think, 
 How wicked our natural hearts are — 
 
 How much lower than brutes we can sink. 
 
 " I will preach to my people a sermon, 
 
 And take old Meg for my text ; 
 And show them how narrow the safe road 
 
 That leads from this world to the next." 
 
 So he sat himself down at the table. 
 
 And began with " Original Sin ; " 
 And by and by Meg and her swearing 
 
 Were deftly dovetailed therein. 
 
 With "thirdly" and "fourthly" he finished; 
 
 Then turned to his grate nice and warm. 
 When he thought of Widow Mory, and wondered 
 
 If she was prepared for the storm. 
 
 " I '11 call around soon in the morning, 
 And be sure that all is quite right.'' 
 
 He did ; and found food in abundance, 
 And the grate with a fire glowing bright. 
 
 And the widow, with joy fairly weeping. 
 Told how she was caught by the storm ; 
 
 Not a morsel of food for her children — 
 Not a coal her poor hovel to warm I 
 
 And that they would surely have perished, — 
 
 Too cold to go out and beg, — 
 "When pitying Heaven sent succor 
 
 By such a strange angel — Old Meg I 
 
 Then a light slowly dawned on Eliab — 
 I can't say what conclusion he reached ; 
 
 But I know, stowed away 'mong his sermona, 
 Lies one that never was preaclied ! 
 
 James Roann Reed. 
 
ll 
 
 
 If 
 
 i 'i 
 
 H '1 ''• 
 
 1 ' 
 
 si 'i' ' 
 
 i • 
 
 H i!l i 
 
 n ' 
 
 
 .Mi 
 
 ' 
 
 P> 
 
 
 294 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 JUDGE NOT. 
 
 How do we know what hearts have vilest sin ? 
 
 How do we know ? 
 Many, like sepulchres, are foul within, 
 
 Whose outward garb is spotless as the snow, 
 And many may be pure we think not so. 
 How near to God the souls of such have been, 
 What mercy secret penitence may win — 
 How do we know ? 
 
 \ ii 
 
 '^* ■' f 
 
 How can we tell who sinned more than we ? 
 
 How can we te'l ? 
 We think our brother walked guiltily. 
 Judging him in self-righteousness. Ah, well I 
 Perhaps had we been driven through the hell 
 Of his untold temptations, we might be 
 Less upright in our daily walk than he~ 
 How can we tell ? 
 
 Dare we condemn the ills that others do ? 
 
 Dare we condemn ? 
 Their strength is small, their trials not a few, 
 The tide of wrong is difficult to stem. 
 And if to us more clearly than to the:T> 
 Is given knowledge of the great and true, 
 More do they need our help and pity too — 
 Dare we condemn? 
 
 \m 
 
 H, 
 
 \\ 
 
 ,1 p 
 
 God help us all, and lead us day by day, — 
 
 God help us all I 
 We cannot walk alone the perfect way. 
 Evil allures us, tempts us, and we fall. 
 We are but human, and our power is small 5 
 Not one of us may boast, and not a day 
 Rolls o'er our heads but each hath need to say, 
 God bless us all I 
 
 THE CHIMES OF OLD ENGLAND. 
 
 The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Of England green and old, 
 That out from fane and ivied tower 
 
 A thousand years have tolled : 
 How glorious sounds their music, 
 
 As breaks the hallowed day. 
 And calleth with a seraph's voice 
 
 A nation up to pray J 
 
LIFE, P.ELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 295 
 
 Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, 
 
 Sweet tales of olden time, 
 And ring r. thousand memories 
 
 At vesper and at pi ime I 
 At bridal and at burial, 
 
 For cottai'- and king. 
 Those chimes aose glorious Christian chimes, 
 
 IIow blessedly they ring ! 
 
 Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Upon a Christmas morn, 
 Outbreaking as the angels, 
 
 For a Redeemer born ! 
 How merrily they call afar. 
 
 To cot and baron's hall, 
 With holly decked and mistletoe. 
 
 To keep the festival I 
 
 Those chimes of England, how they peal 
 
 From tower and Gothic piles. 
 Where hymn ar.d swelling anthem fill 
 
 The dim cathedral aisles ; 
 Where windows bathe the holy light 
 
 On priestly heads that falls, . 
 And stain the florid tra xry 
 
 Of banner-lighted walls I 
 
 And then, those Easter bells in spring, 
 
 Those glorious Easter chimes, 
 IIow loyally they hail thee round. 
 
 Old Queen of holy times 1 
 From hill to hill, like sentinels, 
 
 Responsively they cry, 
 And sing the rising of the Lord 
 
 From vale to mountain high. 
 
 I love ye, chimes of Motherland, 
 
 With all this soul of mine, 
 And bless the Lord that I am sprung 
 
 Of good old English line: 
 And like a son I sing the lay 
 
 That England's glory tells ; 
 For she is lovely to the Lord, 
 
 For you, ye Christian bells. 
 
 And, heir of her ancestral fame, 
 
 Though far aw.vy my birth, 
 Thee, too, I love, my Forest home, 
 
 The joy of all the earth ; 
 For thine thy mother's voice sh.iU be, 
 
 And here, where (lod is King, 
 With English chimes, from Christian spires, 
 
 The wilderness shall ring. 
 
 Bishop Coxe. 
 
296 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 i 
 
 THE SABBATH BELLS. 
 
 i;i Mi 
 
 .-.Mi 
 
 The old man sits in his easy-chair, 
 
 And his ear has caught the ringing 
 Of many a church-bell far and near, 
 
 Their own sweet music singing. 
 And his head sinks low on the aged briast, 
 
 While his thoughts far back are reaching 
 To the Sabbath morns of his boyish days 
 
 And a mother's sacred teaching. 
 
 A few years later, and lo ! the bells 
 
 A merrier strain were pealing, 
 And heavenward bore the marriage vows 
 
 Which his manhood's J9ys were sealing. 
 But the old man's eyes are dimming now, 
 
 As memory holds before him » 
 
 The sad, sad picture of later years. 
 
 When the tide of grief rolled o'er him ; 
 
 When the bells were tolling for loved ones gone, • 
 
 For the wife, the sons and daughters. 
 Who, one by one, from his home went out, 
 
 And dow 1 into death's dark waters. 
 But the aged heart has still one joy 
 
 Which his old life daily blesses, 
 And his eyes grcnv bright and his pulses warm 
 
 'Neath a grandchild's sweet caresses. 
 
 But the old man wakes from his reverie, 
 
 And his dear old face is smiling. 
 While the child with her serious eyes reads on. 
 
 The Sabbath hours beguiling. 
 Ah ! bells, once more ve will ring for him, 
 
 When the heavenly liand shall sever 
 The cord of life, and his freed soul flies 
 
 To dwell with his own forever. 
 
 I'I'i 1 
 
 NO SECT IN HEAVEN. 
 
 i^ h 
 
 Talking of sects till late one eve, 
 Of the various doctrines the saints believe, 
 That night I stood in a troubled dream 
 By the side of a darkly flowing stream ; 
 
 And a Churchman down to the river came, 
 When I heard a strange voice call his name ; 
 " Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide, 
 You must leave your robes on the other side." 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 297 
 
 But the aged father did not mind, 
 And his long gown floated out behind, 
 As down to the stream his way he took, 
 His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book. 
 
 " I am bound for heaven, and when I'm there 
 I shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; 
 And though I put on a starry crown, 
 I should feel quite lost without my gown." 
 
 Then he fixed his eye on the shining track. 
 But his gown was heavy and held him back ; 
 And the poor old father tried in vain 
 A single step in the flood to gain. 
 
 I saw him again on the other side. 
 But his silk gown floated on the tide, 
 And no one asked, in that blissful spot, 
 Whether he belonged to " The Church " or not. 
 
 Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 
 His dress of a sombre hue was made. ' 
 " My coat and hat must all be of gray, 
 I cannot go any other way." 
 
 Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin. 
 And slowly, solemnly waded in ; 
 And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight 
 Over his forehead so cold and white. 
 
 But a strong wind carried away his hat ; 
 A moment he silently sighed over that, 
 And then, as he gazed to the f.irther shore. 
 His coat slipped off and was seen no more. 
 
 As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
 Went quietly sailing away, away ; 
 And none of the angels questioned him 
 About the width of his beaver's brim. 
 
 Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of psalms 
 
 Tied nicely up in his aged arms. 
 
 And hymns as many, a very nice thing. 
 
 That the people in heaven, all round, migh' sing. 
 
 But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh 
 As he saw that the river ran broad and high. 
 And looked rather surprised as, one by one. 
 The psalms and the hymns in the waves went down. 
 
 After him. with his M.SS., 
 
 Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness j 
 
 But he cried, " Dear me, what shall I do, 
 
 The water has soaked tlvem tiirough and through ? " 
 
,]■• 1 
 
 298 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And there on the river far and wide 
 Away they went down the swollen tide, 
 While the saint astonished passed through alone, 
 Without his manuscript, up to the throne. 
 
 Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
 Down to the stream together came ; 
 But as they stopped at the river's brink, 
 I saw one saint from the other shrink. 
 
 **' Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you, friend, 
 How you attained to life's great end ? " 
 " Thus, with a few drops on my brow " — 
 " But I 've been dipped, as you '11 see now, 
 
 " And I really think it will hardly do. 
 As I 'm * close communion,' to cross with you. 
 You 're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. 
 But you must go that way, and I '11 go this." 
 
 Then straightway plunging with all his might. 
 Away to the left, his friend to the right. 
 Apart they went from this world of sin. 
 But at last together they entered in. 
 
 And now, when the river was rolling on, 
 
 A Presbyterian Church went down ; 
 
 Of women there seemed an innumerable throng. 
 
 But the men I could count as they passed along. 
 
 And concerning the road they could never agree. 
 The old or the new way, which it could be, 
 * Nor ever for a moment paused to think 
 That both would lead to the river's brink. 
 
 And a constant murmuring, long and loud, 
 Came ever up from the moving crowd : 
 " You 're in the old way, and I 'm in the new. 
 That is the false and this is the true." 
 
 i ' k 
 
 Or, " I 'm in the old way, and you 're in 
 That is the false and this is t!,e true." 
 But the brethren only seemed to speak ; 
 Modest the sisters walked, and meek. 
 
 the new. 
 
 But if ever one of them chanced to say 
 What troubles she met with on the way, 
 How she longed to be on the other side, 
 Nor feared to cross o'er the swollen tide, 
 
 A voice arose from the brethren then : 
 " Let no one speak but the holy men ; 
 For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
 Oh ! let the women keep silence all ? " 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 299 
 
 I watched them long in my curious dream, 
 Till they stood by the borders of the stream ; 
 Then, just as I thought, the two ways met, 
 And all the brethren were talking yet. 
 
 And would talk on till the heaving tide 
 Carried them over side by side — 
 * Side by side, for the way was one ; 
 The toilsome journey of life was done. 
 
 And priest and Quaker and all who died 
 Came out alike on the other side — 
 No forms or crosses or books had they ; 
 No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; 
 No creeds to guide them, nor MSS., 
 For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 
 
 THE MODEL CHURCH. 
 
 Well, wife, I 've found the model church I I worshipped there 
 
 to-day I 
 It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; 
 The meetin'-house was fixed up more than they were years ago, 
 But then I felt when I went in it was n't but for show. 
 
 ii 
 
 The sexton did n't seat me away back by the door ; 
 He knew that I was old and deaf as well as old and poor ; 
 He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through 
 The long aisle of the crowded church to find a pleasant pew. 
 
 I wish you 'd heard the singin' ; it had the old-time ring ; 
 The preacher said with trumpet voice, " Let all the people 
 
 sing ! " 
 The tune was " Coronation," and the music upward rolled. 
 Till I thought I heard the angels playing on their harps of 
 
 gold. 
 
 My deafness seemed to melt away ; my spirit caught the fire ; 
 I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, 
 And sang as in my youthful days, " Let angels prostrate fall ; 
 Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of all." 
 
 I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more ; 
 I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore ; 
 I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form. 
 And anchor in the blessed port, forever from the storm. 
 
300 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The preachin*? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher 
 
 said; 
 I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't re?.d; 
 He had n't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye 
 Went flashing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. 
 
 The sermon was n't flowery ; 't was simple gospel truth ; 
 It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth ; ' 
 'Twas full of invitations to Christ, and not to creed. 
 And bade us copy Him in thought and word and deed. 
 
 The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews ; 
 He shot the golden sentences down into the finest pews ; 
 And — though I can't see very well — I saw the falling tear 
 That told me hell was some ways off and heaven very near. 
 
 How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place ; 
 How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy 
 
 face I 
 Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with 
 
 friend, 
 " When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no 
 
 end." 
 
 I hope to meet that minister — that congregation too — 
 
 In the dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's 
 
 blue ; 
 I doubt not I '11 remember, beyond life's evening gray, 
 The happy hours of worship in that model church to-day. 
 
 Dear wife, the fight will soon be four^ht, the victory be won ; 
 The shinin' goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run ; 
 O'er the river we are nearin' they are throngin' to the shore, 
 To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. 
 
 Note. — The liberty has been taken to fill out the last line of the seventh 
 verse in the above, as it was missing in the clipping. 
 
 THE FOOL'S PRAYER. 
 
 The royal feast was done ; the king 
 Sought some new sport to banish care, 
 
 And to his jester cried, " Sir Fool, 
 Kneel now for us and make a prayer ! " 
 
 The jester doffed his cap and bells. 
 
 And stood the mockinj^ court before; 
 They could not see the bitter smile 
 
 Behind the painted grin he wore. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AlfD DEATH'S MYSTERY. 30 1 
 
 le or^acher 
 
 3f the seventh 
 
 He bowed his head, and bent his knee 
 
 Upon the monarch's silken stool ; 
 His pleading voice arose : " O Lord, 
 
 L»j merciful to me, a fool I 
 
 "No pity, Lord, could change the heart 
 From red with wrong to white as wool ; 
 
 The rod must heal the sin ; but. Lord, 
 Be merciful to me, a fool I 
 
 " 'T is by our guilt the onward sweep 
 Of truth and light, O Lord, we stay; 
 
 'T is by our follies that so long 
 
 We hold the earth from heaven away. 
 
 " These clumsy feet, still in the mire. 
 Go crushing blossoms without end ; 
 
 These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust 
 Among the heart-strings of a friend. 
 
 "The ill-time truth that we have kept — 
 We know how sharp it pierced and stung ! 
 
 The word we had not sense to say — 
 Who knows how grandly it had rung? 
 
 "Our faults no tenderness should ask, 
 The chastening stripes must cleanse them all ; 
 
 But for our blunders — oh, in shame 
 Before the eyes of Heaven we fall. 
 
 " Earth bears no blossoms for mistakes ; 
 
 Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool 
 That did his will ; but thou, O Lord, 
 
 Be merciful to me, a fool I " 
 
 The room was hushed. In silence rose 
 The king, and sought his garden cool, 
 
 And walked apart, and murmured low, 
 " Be merciful to me, a fool 1 " 
 
 WHAT IS HIS CREED? 
 
 He left a load of anthracite 
 
 In front of a poor widow's door 
 When the deep snow, frozen and white. 
 
 Wrapped street and squar( , mountain and moor. 
 That was his deed I 
 
 He did it well ! 
 " What was his creed ? " 
 I cannot tell I 
 
m 11 
 
 302 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Blessed " in his basket and his store," 
 
 In sitting down and rising up ; 
 When more he got, he gave the more — 
 Withholding not the crust and cup. 
 He took the lead 
 
 In each good task. 
 " What was his creed ? " 
 I did not ask. 
 
 His charity was like the snow — 
 
 Soft, white, and silent in its fall ; 
 Not like the noisy winds that blow 
 From shivering trees the leaves — a pall 
 For flower and weed, 
 
 Dropping below I 
 " What was his creed ?" 
 The poor ma)' know. 
 
 He had great faith in loaves of bread 
 For hungry people, young and old ; 
 And hope-inspired, kind words he said - 
 To those he sheltered from the cold. 
 For we must feed 
 ■,V As well as pray. 
 
 *• What was his creed ? " 
 I cannot say. 
 
 In works he did not put his trust ; ^; 
 
 His faith in words he never writ ; 
 He loved to share his cup and crust 
 With all mankind who needed it. 
 In time of need 
 
 A friend was he. 
 " What was his creed? " 
 He told not me. 
 
 He put his trust in Heaven, and he 
 
 Worked well with hand and head : 
 And what he gave in charity 
 Sweetened his sleep and dai ^ bread. 
 Let us take heea. 
 
 For life is brief ; 
 " What was his creed. 
 What his belief?" 
 
 TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. 
 
 By thine own soul's law learn to live. 
 And if men thwart thee take no heed, 
 And if men hate thee have no care ; 
 Sing thou thy song and do thy deed. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 303 
 
 Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer, 
 And claim no crown they will not give, 
 Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair. 
 
 Keep thou thy soul-sworn steadfast oath, 
 And to thy heart be true thy heart; 
 What thy soul teaches learn to know, 
 And play out thine appointed part ; 
 And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow, 
 Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth, 
 To thy full stature thou shalt grow. 
 
 Fix on the future's goal thy face. 
 
 And lot thy feet be lured to stray 
 
 Nowhither, but be swift to run, 
 
 And nowhere tarry by the way, 
 
 Until at ' «t the end is won. 
 
 And thou mayst look back from thy place 
 
 And see thy long day's journey done. 
 
 The spectator. Pakenham Beatty. 
 
 THE HINDOO SCEPTIC. 
 
 I THINK till I weary with thinking. 
 Said the sad-eyed Hindoo king, 
 
 And I see but shadows around me, 
 Illusion in everything. 
 
 How knowest thou aught of God, 
 
 Of his favor or his wrath? 
 Can the little fish tell what the lion thinks, 
 
 Or map out the eagle's path ? 
 
 Can the finite the Infinite search ? 
 
 Did the blind discover the stars ? 
 Is the thought that I think a thought. 
 
 Or a throb of the brain in its bars ? 
 
 For aught that my eye can discern. 
 Your God is what you think good, — 
 
 Yourself flashed back from the glass. 
 When the light pours on it in flood. 
 
 You preach to nie to be just, 
 And this is his realm, you say ; 
 
 And the good are dying of huiiger, 
 And the bad gorge every day. 
 
 You say thrt he loveth mercy, 
 And the famine is not yet gone ; 
 
 That he hateth the shedder of blood, 
 And he slayeth us every one. 
 
 ' )J 
 
304 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 You say that my soul shall live, 
 That the spirit can never die — 
 
 If he were content when I was not, 
 Why not when I have passed by ? 
 
 You say I mn"* have a meaning, 
 
 So mu' and its meaning is flowers ; 
 
 What if t . .ils are but nurture 
 For lives that arc greater than ours ? 
 
 When the fish swims out of the water, 
 When the birds soar out of the blue, 
 
 Man's thought may transcend man's knowledge, 
 And your God oe no reflex of you. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 DECREED. 
 
 ^'f 
 
 Irs^TO all lives some rain must fall. 
 
 Into all eyes some tear-drons start, 
 Whether they fall as gentle shower, 
 
 Or fall like fire from an aching heart. 
 Into all hearts some sorrow must creep, 
 
 Into all souls some doubtings come. 
 Lashing the waves of life's great deep 
 
 From dimpling waters to seething foam. 
 
 Over all paths some clouds must lower, 
 
 Under all feet some sharp thorns spring. 
 Tearing the flesh to bitter wounds. 
 
 Or entering the heart with their bitter sting. 
 Upon all brows rough winds must blow, 
 
 Over all shoulders a cross be lain, 
 Bowing the form in its lofty height 
 
 Down to the dust in bitter pam. 
 
 Into all hands some duty 's thrust ; 
 
 Unto all arms some burden 's given, 
 Crushing the heart with its weary weight. 
 
 Or lifting the soul from earth to heaven. 
 Into all hearts and homes and lives 
 
 God's dear sunlight comes streaming down, 
 Gilding the ruins of life's great plain — 
 
 Weaving for all a golden crown. 
 
 The Presbyterian, 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 305 
 
 THE LITTLE CHURCH ROUND THE CORNER. 
 
 " Bring him not here, where our sainted feet 
 
 Are treacling the path to gloiv; 
 Bring him not here, where our Saviour sweet 
 
 Repeats for us his story. 
 Go, talvC him where such things are done 
 
 (For he sat in the seat of the scorner), 
 To where they have room, for we have none, — 
 
 To the little church round the corner." 
 
 So spake the holy man of God, 
 
 Of another man, his brother, 
 Whose cold remains, ere they sought the sod. 
 Had only asked that a Christian rite 
 Might be read above them by one whose light 
 
 Was, " Brethren, love one another ; " 
 Had only asked that a prayer be read 
 Ere his flesh went down to join the dead, 
 While his spirit looked with suppliant eyes, 
 Searching for God throughout the skies. 
 But the priest frowned *' No," and his brow was bare 
 
 Of love in the sight of the mourner. 
 And they looked for Christ and found him — where ? 
 
 In that little church round the corner. 
 
 Ah ! well, God grant when, with aching feet. 
 
 We tread life's last few paces. 
 That we may hear some accents sweet. 
 
 And kiss, to the end, fond faces. 
 God grant that this tired flesh may rest 
 
 ('Mid many a musing mourner), 
 While the sermon is preached and the rites are read 
 In no church where the heart of love is dead, 
 And the pastor 's a pious prig at best. 
 But in some small nook where God 's confessed, — 
 
 Some little church round the corner. 
 
 A. E. Lancaster. 
 
 ROCK QF AGES. 
 
 " Rock of Agesy cleft for me," 
 
 Thoughtlessly the maiden sung, 
 Fell the words n"consciously 
 
 From her girKsli, gleeful tongue ; 
 Sang as little chi'dren sing; 
 
 Sang as sing the birds in June ; 
 Fell the words like light leaves down 
 
 On the current of the tune, — 
 ' Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 20 
 
3o6 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 ** Let me hide myself in thee," — 
 
 Felt her soul no need to hide ; 
 Sweet the sonK as song could be. 
 
 And she had no thought beside ; 
 All the words unheedingly 
 
 Fell from lips untouched by care, 
 Dreaming not thev each might be 
 
 On some other lips a prayer — 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for mc, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 \i ^% 
 
 i II 
 
 li ,1 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me " — 
 
 'T was a woman sung them now, 
 Pleadingly and prayerfully ; 
 
 Every word her hea'-t did know. 
 Rose the song as storm-tossed bird 
 
 Beats with weary wing the air ; 
 Every note with sorrow stirred — 
 
 Every syllable a prayer, — 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me," — 
 
 Lips grown aged sung the hymn 
 Trustingly and tenderly — 
 
 Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim. 
 " Let me hide myself in thee " — 
 
 Trembling though the voice and low, 
 Ran the sweet strain peacefully, 
 
 Like a river in its flow. 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who life's thorny paths have pressed; 
 Sung as only they can sing 
 
 Who behold the promised rest, — 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 
 Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me," 
 
 Sung above a coffin-lid ; 
 Underneath all restfully 
 
 All life's joys and sorrows hid. 
 Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul, 
 
 Nevermore from wind or tide, 
 Nevermore from billow's roll, 
 
 Wilt thou need thyself to hide. 
 Could the sightless, sunken eyes, 
 
 Closed beneath the soft gray hair. 
 Could the mute and stiffened lips 
 
 Move again in pleading prayer ; 
 Still, aye still the words would be, 
 " Let me hide myself in thee." 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 307 
 
 NIGHT AND MORNING. 
 
 Was it a lie that they told me, 
 
 Was it a pitiless hoax ? 
 A sop for my soul and its longing 
 Only to cozen and coax ? 
 And a voice canie down through the night and rain 
 •• They lied; thou hast trusted in vain." 
 
 Must I vanish off-hand into darkness, 
 
 Blown out with a breath like a lamp? 
 Have I nought in the future to look to 
 Save rotting in darkness and damp ? 
 And the answer came with a mocking hiss : 
 " Thou hast nothing to look to save this." 
 
 What of the grave and its conquest, 
 Of death and the loss of its sting ? 
 Was it only the brag of a madman 
 Who believed an impossible thing ? 
 And the voice returned, as the voice of a ghost : 
 ** It was but a madman's boast." 
 
 Am I the serf of my senses } 
 
 Is my soul a slave without rights ? 
 Are feeding and breeding and sleeping 
 My first and truest delights ? 
 And the cruel answer cut me afresh : » 
 
 " Thou art but the serf of thy flesh." 
 
 Is it all for nought that I travail, 
 
 That I long for leisure from sin, 
 That I thirst for the pure and the perfect, 
 And feel like a god within ? 
 The voice replied to my passionate thought : 
 " Thy longing and travail is nought." 
 
 Then I bowed my head in my anguish. 
 
 Folding my face in my hands, 
 And I shuddered as one that sinketh 
 In the clutch of quaking sands. 
 And I stared, as I clinched my fingers tight, 
 Out through the black, black night. 
 
 For life was shorn of its meaning. 
 And I cried : " O God, is it so ? 
 Utter the truth though it slay me, 
 Utter it, yes or no ! " 
 But I heard no answer to heal my pain, 
 Save the bluster of wind and rain. 
 
3o8 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And behold, as I sat in my sorrow, 
 
 A quick ray shot from the east, 
 Another and then another, 
 
 And I knew that the night had ceased. 
 And the dark clouds rolled away to the west 
 As the great sun rose from his rest. 
 
 And now, as the fair dawn broadened. 
 
 Strong and joyous and bright, 
 My whole soul swept to meet it, 
 Rapt with a deep delight ; 
 And a new voice rang down the radiant skies 
 " Rejoice ; I have heard thee. Arise." 
 Good Words. 
 
 THE PRINCE OF PEACE. 
 
 In^i'lr 
 
 Is •■■:' 
 
 Death sent his messengers before. 
 
 "Our master comes apace," they cried ; 
 " Ere night he will be at the door 
 
 To claim thy darling from thy side " 
 I drove them forth with curses fell ; 
 
 I drove them forth with jeer and scoff ; 
 Not all the powers of heaven or hell 
 
 Combined should bear my darling off. 
 
 I armed me madly for the fight ; 
 
 My gates I bolted, barred, and locked ; 
 At sunset came a sable knight, 
 
 Dismounted at my doors, and knocked. 
 I answered not ; he knocked again ; 
 
 I braved him sole, I braved his band ; 
 He knocked once more — in vain, in vain; 
 
 My barriers crumbled 'neath his hand. 
 
 I rushed into the breach ; I stood 
 
 Dared with the flood of ebbing light ; 
 "A victory over senseless wood 
 
 Adds scanty glory to thy might ! 
 A stronger champion guards these walls — 
 
 A human love, a living heart ; 
 And while each earthly bulwark falls, 
 
 It stays thee, awful as thou art I " 
 
 My sabre shivered on his mail. 
 
 My lance dropped headless at his feet ; 
 I saw my darling's cheek grow pale, 
 
 I saw her turn, my foe to meet. 
 He passed, — my lips alone could move ; 
 
 Mad words of passion forth I hurled: 
 "They lied who said that God was love, 
 
 Who lets a tyrant rule the world." 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 309 
 
 He gathered her to his embrace, 
 
 While yet I raved in my despair; 
 He raised his visor from his face, 
 
 I looked, and saw an angel there. 
 Such conquering love, such mercy rare, 
 
 Such heavenly pity in his eyes, 
 As surely Love Divine might wear "- 
 
 When He assumed our mortal guise. 
 
 He bent above her dear, dumb lips — 
 
 Mine own, whom I had loved too well — 
 And, struggling from life's last eclipse, 
 
 They smiled in peace ineffable. 
 Awe-struck I watched ; he raised his head. 
 
 And then in tones like summer's breath, 
 " Am I a thing so vile," he said, 
 
 " I, whom ye men call shuddering Death } " 
 
 And sword and targe aside I flung. 
 
 Forgotten wrath, and loss, and pride ; 
 To his departing feet I clung, 
 
 " And me too, take me too," I cried ; 
 " Without her all is blank and black, 
 
 With her and thee so fair — me too;" 
 The solemn voice came ringing back, 
 
 " Not yet, for thee is work to do." 
 
 The sunset sank from rose to gray ; 
 
 His accents died away with it. 
 And from my soul, as from the day, 
 
 The glow and glory seemed to ilit ; 
 And 'mid my stronghold's shattered strength 
 
 I knelt alone, yet not alone ; 
 Death's angel left me hope at length 
 
 Through tasks fulfilled to reach my own. 
 
 IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. 
 
 If I should die to-night. 
 My friends would look upon my quiet face 
 Before they laid it in its resting-place, 
 And deem that death had left it almost fair ; 
 And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair, 
 Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness. 
 And fold my hands with lingering caress, — 
 Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night t 
 
3IO 
 
 ^O 
 
 ■ii 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 If I should die to-night, 
 My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, 
 Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought ; 
 Some gentle word the frozen lips had said ; 
 Errands on which the willing feet had sped ; 
 The memory of my selfishness and pride, 
 My hasty words, would all be put aside, 
 And so 1 should be loved and mourned to-night. 
 
 If I should die to-night. 
 Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, 
 Recalling other days remorsefully; 
 The eyes that chill me with averted glance 
 Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, 
 And soften, in the old familiar way ; 
 For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay I 
 So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. 
 
 Oh, friends, I pray to-night. 
 Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow — 
 The way is lonely, let me feel them now. 
 Think gently of me ; I am travel-worn ; 
 My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. 
 Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! 
 "When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need 
 The tenderness for which I long to-night. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 
 On this side Jordan's wave. 
 In a vale in the land of Moab 
 
 There lies a lonely grave ; 
 And no man dug that sepulchre. 
 
 And no man saw it e'er ; 
 For the " Sons of God " upturned the sod 
 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 But no man heard the trampling, 
 
 Or saw the train go forth. 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes when the night is done, 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun ; 
 
 Noiselessly as the springtime 
 Her crown of verdure weaves. 
 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 Put forth their thousand leaves : 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 311 
 
 So, without sound of music, 
 
 Ur voice of them that wept, 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle. 
 
 On gray Beth-peor's height, 
 Out of his rocky eyrie 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 Perchance the lion stalking 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot ; 
 For beast and Lird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed and muffled drums, 
 
 Follow the funeral car ; 
 They show the banners taken. 
 
 They tell his victories won. 
 And after him lead his masterless steed, 
 
 While peals the minute-gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 Men lay the sage to rest. 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marble drest. 
 In the great minster transept, 
 
 Where lights like glories fall, 
 And the sweet choir sings, and the organ ring.s 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the bravest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword ; 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
 And had he not high honor ? — 
 
 The hillside for his pall, 
 To lie in state while angels wait, 
 
 The stars for tapers tall : 
 And the great rock-pines, like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave. 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land. 
 
 To lay him in his grave, — 
 
 In that deep grave without a name, 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again (most wondrous thought !) 
 
 Before the judgment-day, 
 
312 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And stand, with glory wrapped around, 
 
 On the hills he never trod, 
 And sjjeak of the strife that won our life 
 
 With the Incarnate God. 
 
 O lonely tomb in Moab's land i 
 
 O dark Beth-peor's hill ! 
 Speak to these anxious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath his mysteries of grace. 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell ; 
 He hides them deep, like the secret sleep 
 
 Of him he loved so well. 
 
 Mrs. C. F. Alexander. 
 
 ( ' 
 
 1 
 
 REST AT EVENTIDE. 
 
 " The night Cometh, when no man can work." 
 
 Fold ye the ice-cold hands 
 
 Calm on the pulseless breast ; 
 The toil of the summer day is o'er, 
 
 Now cometh the evening rest ; 
 And the folded hands have nobly wrought 
 
 Through noontide's din and strife, 
 And the dauntless heart hath bravely fought 
 
 In the ceaseless war of life. 
 
 Smooth ye the time-thinned hair 
 
 Still on the marble brow ; 
 No earthly cloud doth linger there 
 
 To mar its beauty now. 
 But brow and lip and darkened eye 
 
 Bear a shade of deep repose. 
 As twilight shadows softly lie 
 
 On the wide-spread winter snows. 
 
 No voice of discord wakes - 
 
 The silence still and deep, 
 And the far-off sounds of worldly strife 
 
 Cannot break the dreamless sleep. 
 Oh, welcome rest to a heart long tossed 
 
 On the tide of hopes and fears, — 
 To the feet that have wandered far and wide 
 
 O'er the weary waste of years. 
 
 From the gorgeous glare of day, 
 
 Welcome the gentle night, 
 Fading the tranquil lines away. 
 
 Solemn and calm and bright. 
 
 \- 
 
 i 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 313 
 
 Then tenderly, tenderly fold the hands 
 
 In peace on the pulseless breast, 
 For the evening shadows come quickly on, 
 
 And sweet is the Christian's rest. 
 
 Thomas D'Arcy McGee. 
 
 TWO ROBBERS. 
 
 When Death from some fair face 
 
 Is stealing life away. 
 All weep, save she, the grace 
 
 That earth shall lose to-day. 
 
 When Time from some fair face 
 Steals beauty year by year, 
 
 For her slow-fading grace 
 Who sheds, save she, a tear ? 
 
 And Death not often dares 
 To wake the world's distress; 
 
 While Time, the cuiin'ng, mars 
 Surely all loveliness. 
 
 Yet though by breath and breath 
 Fades all thy fairest prime. 
 
 Men shrink from cruel Death, 
 But honor crafty Time. 
 
 The Spectator. 
 
 F. W. BOURDILLON. 
 
 LAY ME LOW. 
 
 Lay me low, my work is done ; 
 
 I am weary. Lay me low, 
 Where the wild flowers woo the sun, 
 
 Where the balmy breezes blow 
 Where the butterfly takes wing, 
 
 Where the aspens drooping grow. 
 Where the young birds chirp and sing; 
 
 I am weary, let me go. 
 
 I have striven hard and long. 
 
 In the world's unequal fight, 
 Always to resist the wrong, 
 
 Always to maintain the right ; 
 Always with a stubborn heart. 
 
 Taking, giving blow for blow. 
 Brother, I have played my part, 
 
 And am weary, let me go. 
 
314 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Stern the world, and bitter cold, 
 
 Irksome, painful to endure ; 
 Everywhere a love of gold, 
 
 Nowhere pity for the poor. 
 Everywhere mistrust, disguise, 
 
 Pride, hypocrisy, and show ; 
 Draw the curtain, close mine eyes, 
 
 I am weary, let me go. 
 
 Others, 'chance, when I am gone, 
 
 May restore the battle call ; 
 Bravely lead a good cause on, 
 
 Fighting in the which I fall. 
 God may quicken some true soul 
 
 Here to take my place below 
 In the hero's muster-roll ; 
 
 I am weary, let me go. 
 
 m 
 
 Shield and buckler, hat^g them up. 
 
 Drape the standard on the wall, 
 I have drained the mortal cup 
 
 To the finish, dregs and all. 
 "When our work is done, 't is best. 
 
 Brother, best that we should go. 
 I am weary, let me rest ; 
 
 I am weary, lay me low. 
 
 '1^ !i 
 
 LIFE OR DEATH. 
 
 Doth Life survive the touch of Death ? 
 Death's hand alone the secret holds, 
 Which, as to each one he unfolds. 
 
 We press to know with bated breath. 
 
 Hlh,' 
 
 ■ ;3< 
 
 I I 
 
 A whisper there, a whisper here. 
 
 Confirms the hope to which we cling ; 
 But still we grasp at anything. 
 
 And sometimes hope and sometimes fear. 
 
 Some whisper that the dead we knew 
 Ho"er around us while we pray. 
 Anxious to speak. We cannot say ; 
 
 We only wish it may be true. 
 
 I i 
 
 I know a Stoic, who has thought; 
 
 As healthy blood flows through his veins, 
 And joy his present life sustains. 
 
 And all this good has come unsought, 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 315 
 
 For more he cannot rightly pray ; 
 Life may extend, or life may cease, — 
 He bides tne issue, sure of peac , 
 
 Sure of the best in God's own way. 
 
 Perfection waits the race of man ; 
 If, working out this great design, 
 God cuts us off, we must resign 
 
 To be the refuse of his plan. 
 
 But I, for one, feel no such peace ; 
 I dare to think I have n me 
 That which had better never be, 
 
 If lost before it can increase. 
 
 And oh ! the ruined piles of mind, 
 Daily discovered everywhere. 
 Built but to crumble in despair! 
 
 I dare not think him so unkind. 
 
 The rudest workman would not fling 
 The fragments of his work away. 
 If every useless bit of clay 
 
 He trod on were a sentient thing. 
 
 And does the Wisest Worker take 
 Quick human hearts, instead of stone, 
 And hew and carve them, one by one, 
 
 Nor heed the pangs with which they break } 
 
 And more : if but creation's waste, 
 Would he have given us sense to yearn 
 For the perfection none can earn, 
 
 And hope the fuller life to taste ? 
 
 I think, if we must cease to be, 
 It is a cruelty refined 
 To make the instincts of our mind 
 
 Stretch out toward eternitv. 
 
 Wherefore I welcome Nature's cry 
 As earnest of a life again, 
 Where thought shall never be in vain. 
 And doubt before the light shall fly. 
 Macmillan's Magazine. 
 
 E. B. 
 
 REST IN THE GRAVE. 
 
 Rest in the grave ! but rest is for the weaiy, 
 And her slight limbs were hardly girt for toil ; 
 
 Rest for lives worn out, deserted, dreary. 
 Which have no brightness left for death to spoil. 
 
i^H 'i 
 
 li It ill 
 
 316 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 We yearn for rest when power and passion wasted 
 Have left to memory nothing but regret ; 
 
 She sleeps, while life's best pleasures, all untasted, 
 Had scarce approached her rosy lips as yet. 
 
 Her childlike eyes still lacked their crowning sweetness, 
 Her form was ripening to more perfect grace ; 
 
 She died with the pathetic incompleteness 
 Of beauty's promise on her pallid face. 
 
 What undeveloped gifts, what powers untested, 
 Perchance with her have passed away from earth ; 
 
 What germs of thought in that young brain arrested 
 May never grow and quicken and have birth ! 
 
 She knew not love, who might have loved so truly, 
 Though love-dreams stirred her fancy, faint and fleet ; 
 
 Her soul's ethereal wings were budding newly, 
 Her woman's heart had scarce begun to beat. 
 
 We drink the sweets of life, and drink the bitter, ' 
 
 And death to us would almost seem a boon ; 
 
 But why to her, for whom glad life were fitter, 
 
 Should darkness come ere day had reached its noon ? 
 
 No answer, — save the echo of our weeping 
 
 Which from the woodland and the moor is heard. 
 
 Where, in the springtime, ruthless storm-winds, sweeping, 
 Have slain the unborn flower and new-fledged bird. 
 Temple Bar. 
 
 THE NARROW HOUSE. 
 
 A NARROW home, but very still it seemeth ; 
 
 A silent home, no stir of tumult here ; 
 Who wins that pillow of no sorrow dreameth, 
 
 No whirling echoes jar his sealed ear. 
 The tired hands lie very calm and quiet, 
 
 The weary feet no more hard paths will tread ; 
 The great world may revolve in clash and riot. 
 
 To its loud summons leaps nor heart nor head. 
 
 The violets bloom above the tranquil sleeper, 
 
 The morning dews fall gently on the grass; 
 Amid the daisies kneels the only weeper, 
 
 He knows not where her lingering footsteps pass. 
 The autumn winds sigh softly o'er his slumber, 
 
 The winter piles the snow-drifts o'er his rest; 
 He does not care the flying years to number — 
 
 The narrow home contents its silent guest. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND BEAT IPS MYSTERY. 317 
 
 No baffled hopes can haunt, no doubt perplexes, 
 
 No parted love the deep repose can chafe, 
 No petty care can irk, no trouble vexes, 
 
 From misconstruction his hushed heart is safe. 
 Freed from the weariness of worldly fretting, 
 
 From pain and failure, bootless toil and strife. 
 From the dull wretchedness of vain regretting. 
 
 He lies, whose course has passed away from life. 
 
 A narrow home; and far beyond it licth 
 
 The land whereof no mortal lips can tell. 
 We strain our sad eyes as the spirit tlieth ; 
 
 Our fancy loves on heaven's bright hills to dwell, 
 (jod shuts the door no angel lip uncloses, 
 
 They whom Christ raised no word of guidance said ; 
 Only the cross sjieaks where our dust reposes: 
 
 " Trust Him who calls unto His rest our dead." 
 
 AN IDEAL FUTURE. 
 
 I SELDOM ponder the "future life," 
 
 I hold it a waste of thought, you see. 
 For the most that a man may know is this : 
 
 That which is coming will surely be. 
 To those who find comfort in baseless faith 
 
 I leave the old myth in its newest dress, 
 For I can't cry credo the while the creed 
 
 Is at most but a clumsy guess. 
 
 Yet I 've often thought, if one had his choice 
 
 Of all the heavens that man has made. 
 Which would he choose for his dwelling-place 
 
 When his soul (myth again) from his body strayed ? 
 I 've thought them over from first to last, — 
 
 Scarce one, I 'm sure, did my fancy miss, — 
 And I found that while all contained much good. 
 
 Still not one offered perfect bliss. 
 
 There 's Nirvana, the region of "blowing out," 
 
 Where the Buddhist's soul in a stupor lies ; 
 Pain enters not on that endless rest. 
 
 Yet who could such an existence prize ? 
 Better have done with it, once for all, — 
 
 Be utterly nothing when death is past, — 
 Than pester one's self to redeem one's soul, 
 
 And then come to this end at last. 
 
 There were light and life in the Blessed Isles ; 
 
 Still nobody seemed to exactly know 
 How he might merit those Happy Fields, 
 
 Or in which direction his soul might go. 
 

 [M I 
 
 t 
 
 31S THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 It was n't a question of good and bad ; 
 
 Only the pets of the gods went there, 
 And Pluto's realm might receive a man 
 
 Of virtue and valor rare. 
 
 Valhalla offered a " lively time," 
 
 Enough of excitement was there, at least; 
 It was guzzle and swill, then fight and kill, 
 
 Then come to life for another feast. 
 But, mercy on us I a foeman's skull 
 
 A very suggestive wine-cup makes. 
 And it can't be pleasant to lose one's head 
 
 Just after each meal one takes. 
 
 In the Indian's Happy Hunting-grounds 
 
 A sporting spirit were fitly placed ; 
 But eternal camping-out won't suit 
 
 A soul possessed of more varied taste. 
 Though a squaw has charms for her russet beau, 
 
 She has passing few for you and me, 
 And Eden devoid of a pretty face 
 
 Would a cheerless Eden be. 
 
 ** Then turn to Mahomet's Paradise," * 
 
 I think I hear ^ou in triumph say ; 
 " Bathed in the light of the houris' eyes 
 
 Your taste for beauty can have full play." 
 Softly, O friend ! thou hast heard it said 
 
 Enough of a thing is good as a feast ; 
 My ideas of " enough " of such company 
 
 Don't agree with those of the East. 
 
 ■^.. And thus in each heaven I find a flaw ; 
 
 From first to last there is none complete ; 
 Not one where a dreaming epicure 
 
 Can paint existence as nought but sweet. 
 He has to take an idea from each 
 
 To build an Eden of perfect bliss ; 
 Tastes differ — but mine would assume a shape 
 
 Nearly, or quite, like this : 
 
 Elysium's glory at break of day, 
 
 The Hunting-grounds in the cool of morn, 
 Valhalla's banquet at glowing eve, 
 
 And the houris' soft embrace till dawn ; 
 Nirvana's rest when the day is done, 
 . For a blessing not to be lost is sleep. 
 
 And weariness is a pleasant boon. 
 That maketh the slumber deep. 
 The Argomttt, T. A. Harcourt. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 319 
 
 IN A GRAVEYARD. 
 (From the German.) 
 
 " Here rests in God." 'T is all we read ; 
 
 The mouldering stone reveals no more. 
 " In God." Of other words what need ? 
 
 These span the broad eternal shore. 
 
 O'erladen with its starry blooms, 
 A jasmine bush conceals the mound, 
 
 Neglected in the place of tombs, 
 
 With spicy, golden sweetness crowned. 
 
 And deep within its leafy breast 
 
 Some tuneful bird has sought a home, 
 
 The tiny brood within the nest 
 Fearless and free to go and come. 
 
 A holy quietude is here, 
 
 Save where the happy birdling's song 
 Breaks through the stillness pure and clear, 
 ' And echoes the dark firs among. 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, thou pulseless heart, 
 Where jasmine stars drop golden rain, 
 
 From every troubled thought apart, 
 Forgotten every earthly pain. 
 
 Sleep on ; thy long repose is sweet. 
 Tender and cool thy grassy sod. 
 
 O traveller ! stay thy hurrying feet ; 
 Step softly here — " he rests in God." 
 
 The Catholic World. 
 
 
 11 ^Bl 
 
 lit 
 
 
 ■1:1 
 
 V' 
 
 \. Harcourt. 
 
 REST. 
 
 When thou art weary of the world, and leaning 
 
 Upon my breast. 
 My soul will show to thine its hidden meaning. 
 
 And thou shalt rest. 
 When thou art eagerly but vainly aiming 
 
 At some far end, 
 Thou knowest not thy pining and complaining 
 
 Have pierced thy Friend. 
 My presence is around thee and about thee — 
 
 Thou dost not know — 
 But if thou knewest, thou wouldst not doubt me, 
 
 I love thee so. 
 
320 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Thou art a very child, and nccdcst Ruiding,— 
 
 Thee I will lead ; 
 Another puide might be too quick in chiding, 
 
 Nor know thy need. 
 
 A 
 
 Lean on me, child — nor faint beneath thy sighing, 
 
 With help so near ; 
 I took upon me all thy grief and dying, 
 
 To heal thy fear. 
 When thou art resting in my secret dwelling, 
 
 Shadowed by me, 
 Thou shalt not tire of listening — I of telling 
 
 My love for thee. 
 Thine eyes are bent upon each loving token 
 
 Sent by my hand ; 
 With these alone thv spirit would be broken 
 
 In thy fair land. 
 Thou art a lover of all things of beauty , 
 
 In earth and space ; 
 Then, surely, 't were thy pleasure and thy duty 
 
 Their source to trace. 
 
 :i.*' 
 
 Track the bright river of each much-prized blessing 
 
 Back to its source ; 
 See all the blooming growth thy foot is pressing 
 
 Along its course. 
 See, gathered in the storehouse of sweet dreaming, 
 
 Each glowing thought 
 Which daylight, starlight, or the moon's sweet gleaming 
 
 To thee have brought. 
 All real beauty which thy heart is greeting 
 
 In this fair earth, 
 All music which thy charmed ear is meeting. 
 
 From me had birth. 
 But this will be revealed when thou art leaning 
 
 Upon my breast ; 
 Thy soul shall comprehend my hidden meaning — 
 
 And thoi, .alt rest. 
 
 Chambers's Journal. 
 
 THE PARADISE OF TEARS. 
 
 (From the German.) 
 
 Beside the River of Tears, with branches low. 
 And bitter leaves, the weeping willows grow ; 
 The branches stream like the dishevelled hair 
 Of women in the sadness of despair. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 32 1 
 
 On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh; 
 The rocks moan wildly as it passes by; 
 Hyssop and wormwood Ijordcr all the strand, 
 And not a flower adorns the dreary land. 
 
 Then comes a child, whose face is like the sun, 
 And dips the gloomy waters as they run, 
 And waters all the region, and behold ! 
 The ground is bright with blossoms manifold. 
 
 Where fall the tears of love the rose appears, 
 And where the ground is wet with friendshijj's tears 
 Forget-me-nots and violets, heavenly blue. 
 Spring, glittering with cheerful drops like dew. 
 
 m 
 
 The souls of mourners, all whose tears are dried. 
 Like swans come gently floating down the tide. 
 Walk up the goU'cn sands by which it flows. 
 And in that Paradise o£ Tears repose. 
 
 There every heart rejoins its kindred heart ; 
 There, in a long embrace that none may part, 
 Fulfilment meets desire, and that fair shore 
 Beholds its dwellers happy evermore. 
 
 HI 
 
 NEARING PORT. 
 
 The noble river widens as we drift, 
 \ And the deep waters more than brackish grow ; 
 We note the sea-birds flying to and fro, 
 And feel the ocean-currents plainly lift 
 Our bark, and yet our course we would not shift : 
 These are but signs by which the boatmen know 
 They 're drawing near ♦he port to which they go 
 To land their cargo or to bring their.gift. 
 So may our lives reach out on either hand, 
 Broader and broader, as the end draws near ; 
 So may we seek God's truths to understand. 
 As the sea-birds shelter seek when storms appear ; 
 So may the currents from the heavenly sea 
 Lift us and bear us to eternity. 
 Jackson, Mich. C. P. R. 
 
 ! I 
 
 atv 
 
THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 GIVE ME REST. 
 
 
 l:!l 
 
 ilf'!> 
 
 wm ■ \ 
 
 i MS 
 
 mt - ' 
 
 1-^ = -^ 
 
 .,'•1, 
 
 Only one moment unfettered by care, 
 Hushed as the temple devoted to prayer, 
 
 When heaven is painting the west, 
 Flooding the sky through its portals ajar, 
 Looping the curtains o£ night with a star — 
 Give nie rest. 
 
 Spirit of power, forever you'll reign, 
 Tyrant, enslaving the heart and the brain. 
 
 With every endeavor oppressed. 
 Sick of the lessons that Nature has taught, 
 Weary with burdens of infinite thought — 
 Cive me rest. 
 
 Grant me a potion lethean, a draught 
 Sparkling with tranquil rer jse never quaffed 
 
 By mortals at pleasure's behest. 
 Give me a peace the world cannot give — 
 Respite from action; to act is to live — 
 Give me rest. 
 
 Ceaseless the toil of the spirit distraught, 
 lioundless the realm of invisible thought, 
 
 Where imagery lingers caressed. 
 Waves of oblivion over me roll. 
 Welcome forgetfulness bring to my soul — 
 Give me rest. 
 
 THE KING'S SHIPS. 
 
 God hath so many ships upon the sea ; 
 
 His are the merchantmen that carry treasure, 
 Thr men-of-war, all bannered gallantly, 
 
 'I le little other boats, and barks of pleasure. 
 On all this sea of time there is not one 
 That sailed without the glorious name thereon. 
 
 The winds go up and down upon the sea. 
 
 And some they lightly clasp, entreating kindly, 
 
 And waft them to the port where they would be, 
 And otiier ships they buffet long and blindly. 
 
 The cloud comes down on the great sinking deep, 
 
 And on the shore the watchers stand and weep. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 323 
 
 And G.)d hath many wrecks within the sea; 
 
 Oh, it is deep ! I loolc in fear and wonder; 
 The Wisdom throned aliove is dark to me, 
 
 Yet it is sweet to think liis care is under; 
 That yet the sunken treasure may be drawn 
 Into his storehouse — when the sea is gone. 
 
 So T, that sail in jieril on the sea 
 
 With my Ijeiovcd, whom the waves mav cover, 
 Say, Clod hath more than angel's care of me, 
 
 And larger share than I in friend and lover. 
 Why wcop ye so, ;, e watchers on the land.' 
 This deep is but the hollow of his hand. 
 
 THE PARSON'S COMFORTER. 
 
 The parson goes about his daily waj's, 
 With all the parish troubles on his head, 
 
 And takes his liibic out, and reads and prays 
 Ik'side the sulferer's'chair, the dying bed. 
 
 Whate'er the secret skeleton may be — 
 
 Doubt, drink, or debt — that keeps within his lair, 
 When parson comes, the owner turns tiic key, 
 
 And lets him out to "scpieak antl gibber " there. 
 
 It seems a possibility ungucssed — 
 
 Or little borne in mind, if haplv known — 
 
 Tliat he who cheers in trouble all the rest 
 May, now and then, have troubles of his own. 
 
 Alas ! Clod knows he has his foes to fight, 
 
 His closet-atomy, severe and grim ; 
 All others claim his comfort as of right, 
 
 lUit, hapless parson I who shall conifort him.' 
 
 A friend he has to whom he may repair 
 
 (ISesides that One who carries all our grief), 
 
 And when his load is more than he can bear, 
 lie seeks his comforter, and finds relief. 
 
 W; finds a cottage, very poor and small, 
 The meanest tenement wlierc all are mean ; 
 
 Yet decency and order mark it all, — 
 The panes arc bright, the steps severely clean. 
 
 lie lifts the latch ; his comforter is there, 
 
 Propt in the bed, where now for weeks she stays, 
 
 Or, haply, seated, i.nitting, in her chair. 
 If this be one of those rare " better davs." 
 
 

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 324 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A tiny woman, stunted, bent, and thin ; 
 
 Her features sharp with pain that always wakes ; 
 The nimble hand she holds the needles in 
 
 Is warped and wrenched by dire rheumatic aches. 
 
 Sometimes she gets a grateful change of pain, 
 Sometimes for half a day she quits her bed ; 
 
 And — lying, sitting, crawled to bed again — 
 Always she knits ; her needles win her bread. 
 
 Too well she knows what 't is a meal to miss, 
 Often the grate has not a coal of fire : 
 
 She has no hope of better things than this ; 
 The future darkens, suffering grows more dire. 
 
 Where will they take her, if betide it should 
 Her stiffened hands the needles cannot ply .^ 
 
 Not to the workhouse, — God is very good ; 
 He knows her weakness — he will let her die. 
 
 Sometimes, but seldom, neighbors hear her moan, 
 Wrung by some sudden stress of fiercer pain ; 
 
 Often they hear her pray, but none has known, 
 No single soul has heard her lips complain. 
 
 The parson enters, and a gracious smile 
 
 Over the poor, pinched features brightly grows ; 
 
 She lets the needles rest a little while ; 
 " Vou 're kindly welcome, sir ! " Ah, that he knows. 
 
 He takes the Book, and opens at the place — 
 No need to ask her which her favorite psalm : 
 
 And, as he reads, upon her tortured face 
 There comes a holy rapture, deep and calm. 
 
 She murmurs softly with him as he reads 
 (She can repeat the Psalter through at will) : 
 
 " He feeds me in green pastures, and he leads, — 
 He leads me forth beside the waters still. 
 
 " Yea, through death's shadowy valley though I tread, 
 I will not fear, for Thou dost show the way ; 
 
 Thy holy oil is poured upon my head, 
 Thy loving-kindness follows me for aye." 
 
 The reading 's done, and now the prayer is said ; 
 
 He bids farewell, and leaves her to her pain : 
 But grace and blessing on his soul are shod, — 
 
 He goes forth comforted and strong again. 
 
LIFE, RELIGION, AND DEATH'S MYSTERY. 325 
 
 He takes his way, on divers errands bound, 
 Abler to plead, and warn, and comfort woes; 
 
 That is the darkest house on all his round, 
 
 And yet, be sure, the hapjiiest house he knows. 
 
 Will it not ease, poor soul, thy restless bed, 
 And make thee more content, if that can be, 
 
 To know that from thy suffering balm is shed, 
 That comforts him who comes to comfort thee ? 
 
 Frederick Langbridge. 
 
 m 
 
 WE SHALL I3E SATISFIED. 
 
 The course of the weariest river 
 
 Ends in the great, gray sea ; 
 The acorn forever and ever 
 
 Strives upward to the tree ; 
 The rainbow, the sky adorning, 
 
 Shines promise through the storm ; 
 The glimmer of coming morning 
 
 Through midnight gloom will form. 
 By time all knots are riven, 
 
 Complex although they be. 
 And peace will at last be given. 
 
 Dear, both to you and me. 
 
 Then, though the path be dreary, 
 
 Look forward to the goal ; . 
 
 , Though the heart and the head be weary. 
 
 Let faith inspire the soul ; 
 Seek the right, though the wrong be tempting; 
 
 Speak the truth at any cost ; 
 Vain is all weak exempting 
 
 When once that gem is lost ; 
 Let strong hand and keen eye be ready 
 
 For plain or ambushed foes ; 
 Thought earnest and fancy steady 
 
 Bear best unto the close. 
 
 The heavy clouds may be raining. 
 
 But with evening comes the light; 
 Through the dark, low winds complaining, 
 
 Yet the sunrise gilds the height; 
 And Love has his I idden treasure 
 
 For the patient and the pure ; 
 And Time gives his fullest measure 
 
 To the workers who endure ; 
 And the word that no lore has shaken 
 
 Has the future pletlge supplied ; 
 For we know that when we "awaken" 
 
 We shall be "satisfied." 
 
 S. K. Phillips. 
 
 * iff 
 
326 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 "ACROSS THE LOT." 
 
 Do you remember, when we came from school 
 (You leading me, although not much the older), 
 
 IIow I would skip across the meadow cool, 
 Saucily calling backward, o'er my shoulder, 
 
 " Do as you please, — come on with me or not, 
 
 liut I am going home across the lot " ? 
 
 Away I danced, and you, though left alone, 
 Pursued the way, with face serene and smiling. 
 
 Singing beside the road with low, sweet tone, 
 
 And still one thought your tender heart beguiling; 
 
 Wild though I was, you knew that 1 would wait 
 
 To meet and greet you at the garden-gate. 
 
 There with a bunch of flowers would I stand. 
 
 Or fresh-plucked apples, w'ith their ripeness blushing. 
 
 Or with a glass of water in my hand. 
 
 Just brought from where the hillside spring was gushing, 
 
 Saying, as you bent down to quench your thirst, 
 
 " Now, are n't you glad that 1 am home the first ?" 
 
 I am dying, sister — start not ! Well I know 
 That day by day my little strength is failing; 
 
 Strive not to hold me back, for I must go ; — 
 God's mighty ' ove o'er my weak will prevailing 
 
 Frees you from care and me from pain accurst: 
 
 'T is only that I shall be home the first. > 
 
 And as of old, sweet sister, I will stand, 
 ^' *^il you come, beside the heavenly portal, 
 
 K-' ', ing the fadeless wreath within my hand 
 With which to crown you for your life immortal. 
 
 Others will call me dead: believe them not — 
 
 I only have gone home " across the lot." 
 
 C. S. 
 
ll 
 
 der), 
 t, 
 
 "g, 
 
 uiliug ; 
 lit 
 
 • blushing, 
 
 was gushing, 
 it, 
 
 St?" 
 
 
 PART XI. 
 
 tlDitft a ^torp to Ztll 
 
 "g 
 
 ta! 
 
 C. S. 
 
ii'Ml 
 
 /;• may be glorious to write 
 T/iO!tffftts that shall glad the two or three 
 High souls, like those far stars that come in sigld 
 Once in a century ; — 
 
 But better far it is to speak 
 One simple word, xvhich noiv and then 
 Shall waken their free nature in the weak 
 And friendless sons of men ; 
 
 To write some earnest verse or line, 
 ^Vhich, seeking not the praise of art, 
 SI I make clear faith and manhood shine 
 In the untutored heart. 
 
 i<fJi 
 
 ■il: If, 
 
 He ivho doth this, in verse or prose, 
 May be forgot ten in his day, 
 But surely shall be crowned at last with those 
 Whs live and speak for aye. 
 
 Lowell. 
 
 i P; 
 
PART XL 
 
 Wit^ a J^torp to Ztlh 
 
 LITTLE PHIL. 
 
 " Make me a headboard, mister, smooth and painted. You see, 
 Our ma she died last winter, and sister and Jack and me 
 Last Sunday could hardly find her, so many new graves about, 
 And Bud cried out, * We 've lost her,' when Jack gave a little 
 
 shout. 
 We have worked and saved all winter — been hungry, sometimes 
 
 I own — 
 But we hid this much from father, under the old door-stone : 
 He never goes there to see her ; he hated her ; scolded Jack 
 When he heard us talking about her and wishing that she 'd 
 
 come back. 
 But up in the garret we whisper, and have a good time to cry. 
 For our beautiful mother who kissed us, and was n't afraid to die. 
 Put on that she was forty, in November she went away, 
 That she was the best of mothers, and we have n't forgot to pray ; 
 And we mean to do as she taught us — be loving and true and 
 
 square. 
 To work and read — to love her, till we go to her up there. 
 Let the board be white, like mothe ( the small chin quivered 
 
 here, 
 And the lad coughed something under and conquered a rebel 
 
 tear). 
 Here is all we could keep from father, a dollar and thirty cents ; 
 The rest he 's got for coal and flour, and partly to pay the rents." 
 Blushing the while all over, and dropping the honest eyes: 
 " What is the price of headboards, with writing, and handsome 
 
 size ? " 
 "Three d hilars!" — A young roe wounded just falls with a 
 
 moan ; and he. 
 With a face like the ghost of his mother, sank down on his 
 
 tattered knee. 
 " Three dollars ! and we shall lose her; next winter the rain and 
 
 the snow — " 
 But the boss had his arms about him, and cuddled the head of 
 
 tow 
 
 iri 
 
It ii 
 
 330 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Close up to the great heart's shelter, and womanly tears fell 
 
 fast — 
 " Dear boy, you shall never lose her ; oh, clinpj to your sacred past ! 
 Come to-morrow, and bring your sister and Jack, and the board 
 
 shall be 
 The best that this shop can furnish ; then come here and live 
 
 with me." 
 
 When the orphans loaded their treasure on the rugged old cart 
 
 next day. — 
 The surprise of a footboard varnish, with all that their love 
 
 could say ; 
 And " Edith St. John, Our Mother," — Baby Jack gave his little 
 
 shout, 
 And Bud, like a mountain daisy, went dancing her doll about ; 
 But Phil grew white, and trembled, and close to the boss he crept; 
 Kissing him like a woman, shivered, and laughed, and wept. 
 " Do you think, my benefactor, in heaven that she '11 be glad ? " 
 " Not as glad as you are, Philip — but finish this job, my lad." 
 
 f I 
 
 BILLY'S ROSE. 
 
 m 
 
 «-fs 
 
 
 Billy's dead and gone to glory — so is Billy's sister Nell ; 
 There 's a tale I know about them were I poet I would tell ; 
 Soft it comes, with perfume laden, like a breath of country air 
 Wafted clov.'n the filthy alley, bringing fragrant odors there. 
 
 In that vile and filthy alley, long ago, one winter's day, 
 Dying quick of want and fever, hapless, patient Billy lay; 
 While beside him sat his sister, in the garret's dismal gloom, 
 Cheering with her gentle presence Billy's pathway to the tomb. 
 
 Many a tale of elf and fairy did she tell the dying child. 
 
 Till his eyes lost half their anguish, and her worn, wan features 
 
 smiled, — 
 Tales herself had heard haphazard, caught amid the Babel roar. 
 Lisped about by tiny gossips playing at their mothers' door. 
 
 Then she felt his wasted fingers tighten feebly as she told 
 How beyond this dismal alley lay a land of shining gold. 
 Where, when all the pain was over, where, when all the tears 
 
 were shed. 
 He would be a white-frocked angel, with a gold thing cii his head. 
 
 Then she told some garbled story of a kind-eyed Saviour's love ; 
 How he'd built* for little children great big playgrounds up 
 
 above. 
 Where they sang, and played at hop- scotch and at horses all 
 
 the day. 
 And where beadles and policemen never frightened them away. 
 
WITH A STOA'Y TO TELL. 
 
 331 
 
 y tears fell 
 
 sucrcd past ! 
 d the board 
 
 ;re and live 
 
 gcd old cart 
 
 Lt their love 
 
 rave his little 
 
 doll about ; 
 )oss he crept; 
 and wept. 
 •11 be glad ?^" 
 jb, my lad." 
 
 iter Nell ; 
 A'ould tell ; _ 
 jf country air 
 dors there. 
 
 's day, 
 Jilly lay ; 
 snial gloom, 
 y to the tomb. 
 
 child, 
 
 , wan features 
 
 he r.abel roar, 
 Ihers' door. 
 
 I she told 
 
 Iggold, 
 
 \\ all the tears 
 
 Ing Oil his head. 
 
 saviour's love; 
 I ay grounds up 
 
 at horses all 
 
 led them away. 
 
 Tills was Nell's idea of heaven, — just a bit of what she 'd heard, 
 With a little bit invented, and a little bit inferred; 
 But her brother lay and listened, and he seemed to understand. 
 For he closed his eyes, and murmured he could sec the rroniiscd 
 Land. 
 
 " Yes," he whispered, " I can see it — I can see it, sister Nell, 
 Oh, the children look so happy, and they're all so strong and 
 
 well ; 
 I can see them there with Jesus, — he is playing with them too ; 
 Let us run away and join them, if there 's room for me and you." 
 
 She was eight, this little maiden, and her life had all been spent 
 In the alley and the garret, where they starved to pay the rent; 
 Where a drunken father's curses and a drunken mother's blows 
 Drove her forth into the gutter from the day's dawn to its close. 
 
 But she knew enough, this outcast, just to tell the sinking boy, 
 " You must die before you're able all these blessings to enjoy. 
 You must die," she whispered, "Billy, and /am not even ill, 
 But I '11 come to you, dear brother, yes, I promise you I will. 
 
 "You are dying, little brother, — you are dying, oh, so fast ! 
 I heard father say to mother that h" l-'ncw you couldn't last. 
 They will \n\t you in a coffin, then you '11 wake and be up there, 
 While I 'm left alone to suffer in this garret bleak and bare." 
 
 " Yes, I know it," answered Billy. " Ah, but, sister, I don't mind ; 
 Gentle Jesus will not beat me — he 's not cruel or luikind ; 
 But I can't help thinking, Nelly, I would like to take away 
 Something, sister, that you gave me, I might look at every day. 
 
 " In the summer, you remember how the Mission took us out 
 To the great, green, lovely meadow, where we played and ran 
 
 about ; 
 And the van that took us halted by a sweet white patch of land, 
 Where the fine red blossoms grew, dear, half as big as mother's 
 
 hand. 
 
 "Nell, I asked the kind, good teacher, what they called such 
 
 flowers as those, 
 And he told me, I remember, that the pretty name was ' rose.' 
 I have never seen them since, dear. — how I wish that T had one ! 
 Just to keep, and think of you, Nell, when I 'm up beyond the 
 
 sun." 
 
 Not a word said little Nelly ; but at night, when Billy slept. 
 On she flung her scanty garments, down the creaking stairs she 
 
 crept ; 
 Through the silent streets of London she ran nimbly as a fawn. 
 Running on and running ever, till the night had changed to dawn. 
 
 i& 
 
332 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 1^; 
 
 Ih.r 
 
 When the foggy sun had risen, and the mist had cleared away. 
 All around her, wrapped in snow-drift, there the open country 
 
 lay ; 
 She was tired, her limbs were frozen, and the roads had cut her 
 
 feet. 
 But there came no flowery gardens her keen, hungry eyes to meet. 
 
 She had traced the road by asking ; she had learnt the way to go ; 
 She had found the famous meadow — it was wrapped in cruel 
 
 snow; 
 Not a buttercup or daisy, not a single verdant blade, 
 Showed its head above its prison. Then she knelt her down 
 
 and prayed. 
 
 With her eyes upcast to heaven, down she sank upon the ground, 
 And she prayed to God to tell her where the roses might be 
 
 found. 
 Then the cold blast numbed her senses, and her sight grew 
 
 strangely dim. 
 And a sudden, awful tremor seemed to rack her every limb. 
 
 "Oh, a rose! " she moaned, "good Jesus, just a rose to take to 
 
 Bill ! " 
 Even as she prayed, a chariot came thundering down the hill ; 
 And a lady sat there toying with a red rose, rare and sweet ; 
 As she paf.sed she flung it from her, and it fell at Nelly's feet. 
 
 Just a word her lord had spoken caused her ladyship to fret. 
 And the rose had been his present, so she flung it in a pet ; 
 But the poor, half-blinded Nelly thought it fallen from the skies, 
 And she murmured, '* Thank you, Saviour," as she clasped the 
 dainty prize. . .s 
 
 Lo I that night from out the alley did a child's soul pass away 
 From dirt and sin and misery, to where God's children play. 
 Lo ! that night a wild, fierce snow-storm burst in fury o'er the 
 
 land, 
 And at morn they found Nell, frozen, with the red rose in her 
 
 hand. 
 
 Billy's dead and gone to glory — so is Billy's sister Nell ; 
 Am I bold, to say this happened in the land where angels dwell : 
 That the children met in heaven, after all their earthly woes, 
 And that Nelly kissed her brother, saying, " Billy, here 's your 
 rose " ? 
 
 TOLD AT THE TAVERN. , 
 
 I CAN see_y^« We a gentleman ; time has been — 
 Though you would n't think it to look at me, dressed 
 
 In these beggarly rags, and bloated with gin — 
 I held my heai as high as the best. . 
 
;d rose in her 
 
 WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 Rcclucerl ? I should say so I Stand a treat — 
 I 'm shaky, you see, and dead for a drink — 
 
 And then, \i you 've time, I '11 tell you, complete, 
 A tale that '11 quicken your blood, as 1 think. 
 
 I was a countryman born, brought up on a farm 
 (It fell to my share when the old man died), 
 
 Got married at twenty, and little of harm 
 Was prophesied then of me and my bride. 
 
 Things ran along smooth, and money came in, 
 And my acres increased as the years went by, 
 
 And nothing of sorrow, or care, or sin, 
 Came thither to trouble my wife and I. 
 
 We 'd been married, I guess, a dozen of years, 
 When our only child, a girl, was born. 
 
 A husband yourself? Vou 'II pardon my tears. 
 For the birth at night there was death at morn. 
 
 The girl grew up — was the village queen, 
 
 Reigning by right of her violet eyes. 
 Of her cheek's rich bloom, and marvellous sheen 
 
 Of the goldenest ringlets under the skies. 
 
 Poetical ? Ay ; but she was a saint. 
 
 And her pure, pale brow forever appears 
 
 When I tell the tale ; and the old-time plaint 
 Stirs itself to a language of tears. 
 
 What gold could buy she had only to ask ; 
 
 She was all I had, and should I be mean } 
 To humor her whims was an envious task ; 
 
 I 'd have sold my soul for my golden-haired queen. 
 
 The love I lavished she paid tenfold ; 
 
 I was al! to her as she all to me ; 
 No angel ii\ heaven of gentler mould. 
 
 Or tenderer, lovinger heart than she. 
 
 But — your pardon again — her girlhood's prime — 
 Well, the child had no mother, knew nought of sin. 
 
 This bunch in my throat ! — please spare me a diine 
 To wash it down with a tumbler of gin. 
 
 In her beautiful prime the tempter came ; 
 
 Through such as he the angels fell ; 
 He had wealth of wc rds, and mien, and a name — 
 
 Ah, he bore the title of " Gentleman " well I 
 
 Ha made long prayers, to be seen of men ; 
 
 Sinners he urged from the wrath to come : 
 He met my innocent girl — and then — 
 
 Let 's mix that gin with a trifle n rum ! 
 
 zzz 
 
 i 
 
 i! 
 
 If 
 
Hi' 
 
 334 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 You know it all ? Yes, the talc is old, 
 And worn to shreds by poets and priests ; 
 
 But it 's little you know of the heart I hold — 
 Of its hitter, blasted, Dead Sea feasts. 
 
 Did she die? Of course I To fall was death ; 
 
 (Jould s/w live dishonored, forsaken, betrayed } 
 He .' .Somewhere, I suppose, his scented breath 
 
 Lifts eloquent prayers to llim who made. 
 
 Remorse ? Ay, ay ; to the utmost stretch ! 
 
 Kejientance .'' Don't pray, sir, trillc with me ; 
 I could curse whoever would plead for a wretch 
 
 So lost to honor and manhood as he ! 
 
 And so, as you see, I took to drink ; 
 
 Can you stand another ? I 'm in your debt : 
 A pitiful tale.'' I should rather think ! 
 
 And true as God's own gospel, you bet. 
 
 Theo. F. Havens. 
 
 RETRIBUTION. 
 
 Here, you, policeman, just step inside ; 
 
 See this young woman here — 
 Only just died. 
 
 P'acts in the case look to be 
 Somewhat peculiar; 
 
 Cause of death as you see, 
 Stabbed in the side. 
 
 Me and Maud Myrtle was standing right here, 
 
 Takin' a drink ; 
 In come a loafer, chock full o' beer, 
 
 Leading a little child sweet as a pink ; 
 Not more 'n three years old, pretty and bright, 
 Such little chaps as him 's good for the sight. 
 First thing we knowed the villain was rarin', 
 An' cursin', and swearin'. 
 
 To make the child drink. 
 
 Maud was the nearest by, 
 Sprung at him with a cry, 
 
 Dashed the glass down ! 
 Glared the brute's evil eye. 
 
 Wicked his frown. 
 Quick as the lightning's gleam 
 
 Flashed out the villain's knife; 
 Maud gave one gurgling scream 
 
 As the steel reached her life — 
 Tore through her tender side. ^^ 
 
 So the girl died ! V 
 
F. Havens. 
 
 WITH A STORY TO TELL. 335 
 
 Policeman — there she lies, 
 
 Resting at last ! 
 Trouble was twins with her; 
 
 That is all past I 
 Her life was hard enough, 
 15()rc on her rather rough ; 
 
 Hut to see that peaceful face, 
 Pale and sweet beneath the light, 
 
 Goes to argue that the i)lacc 
 ^Vhcrc she 's travelled to to-night, 
 
 Whatso sort of world it is, 
 
 Can't be worse for her than this. 
 
 The murderer ? Yes I 
 
 Yonder he lies ; 
 Dead in the dirt, 
 
 Like a dog he dies. 
 Some says its doubtful if hanging 's played out. 
 It don't suit me to admit of a doul)t. 
 
 Think I 'm wanted! Do you, though ? 
 
 Well, let's go. 
 
 David L. Proudfit. 
 
 Daily Graphic. 
 
 {Peleg Arkwright.) 
 
 ' 
 
 I 
 
 rii 
 
 , « 
 
 If' 
 
 ONLY JOE. 
 
 This grave were ye meanin', stranger ? Oh, there 's nobody 
 
 much lies here ; 
 It 's only poor Joe, a dazed lad — been dead now better 'n a year, 
 lie was nobody's child, this Joe, sir — orphaned the hour of his 
 
 birth, 
 And simple and dazed all his life, yet the harmlessest crptur 
 
 on earth. 
 
 Some say that he died broken-hearted; bat that is all nonsense, 
 
 you know. 
 For a body could never do that as were simple and dazed like 
 
 Joe. 
 But I 'II tell you the story, stranger, :m' then you can readily see 
 How easy for some folks to fancy a thing that never could be. 
 
 Do you see that grave over yonder ? Well, the minister's 
 
 daughter lies there ; 
 She were a regular beauty, an' as good as she were fair. 
 She 'd a nod an' a kind word for Joe, sir, whenever she passed 
 
 him by ; 
 But bless ye, that were nothin' — she could n't hurt even a fly. 
 
336 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 It wern't very often, I reckon, that people a kind word would 
 
 say, 
 For Joe was simple an' stupid, an' alius in somebody's way ; 
 So I s'pose he kind o' loved her ; but then that were nothin', 
 
 you know. 
 For there was n't a soul in the village but loved her better'n Joe. 
 
 An' when Milly took down with consumption, or some such 
 
 weakness as that, 
 Joe took on kind o* foolish — there was nothin' for him to cry at ; 
 An' he'd range the woods over for hours for flowers to place 
 
 by her bed, 
 An* Milly, somehow or other, kind o' liked his dazed ways, 
 
 thev sp.id. 
 
 m 
 
 ^ 
 
 But when winter was come, she died, sir, an' I well remember 
 
 the day 
 When we carried the little coffin to the old churchyard away ; 
 It were so bitter cold, we were glad when the grave were made, 
 An' when we were done an' went home, I suppose poor Joe 
 
 must have stayed ; 
 
 They found him here the next mornin', lyin' close to the grave, 
 
 they said, 
 An' a looking like he was asleep; but then, of course, he were 
 
 dead. 
 1 suppose he got chilled and sleepy — an' how could a body know 
 How dangerous that kind o' sleep is, as never knowed nothin', 
 
 like Joe ? 
 
 So they say that he died broken-hearted ; but that only shows, 
 
 do you see, 
 IVow easy for some folks to fancy a thing thiit never could be ; 
 For P' w you have heard the story, you '11 agree with me, 
 
 stranger, I know, 
 7 hat a body could never do that, as were simple and dazed, 
 
 like yr- ! 
 San Francisco, 1874. James Roann Reed. 
 
 THE OUTCAST'S DREAM. 
 
 lilf! 
 
 From morn till noon the golden glow 
 
 Of bright Septeml)er sunliglit falls 
 On dewy glades, where fall flowers hide 
 
 Behind the dull, dark lichen walls. 
 From noon till night the slanting rays 
 
 Creep through the tangled winter vine. 
 Where berries fringe the bending sprays. 
 
 Like crimson drops of rare old wine. 
 
d word would 
 
 is dazed ways, 
 
 well remember 
 
 that only shows, 
 
 WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 From morn till noon, from noon till night, 
 
 O'erspreads the earth with jewelled robes, 
 And fire-flies light the purplish dusk 
 
 With countless golden glowing globes ; 
 A woman stalks through dust and heat, 
 
 Until the fleece-like mists of night 
 Enfold her thin and ill-clad form 
 
 In trailing robes of bridal white. 
 
 Her feet are bruised with jagged stones, — 
 
 Her tender feet that years ago 
 Her mother's hands had fondly wrapped 
 
 In infant robes of downy snow ; 
 Her pallid brow, that motner's lips 
 
 Had kissed with mother's kisses pure. 
 Is racked with pain that only they 
 
 Who homeless roam the world endure. 
 
 The clear, rich notes of wild birds break 
 
 The slumberous calm like Sabbath bells. 
 And from the brakes the thrush's song 
 
 In sad, pathetic sweetness swells. 
 The cool night-air is fragrant with 
 
 The scents that rise from dewy flowers. 
 As by the new moon's waning light 
 
 She counts the twilighfs fleeting hours. 
 
 Her wild, sad eyes with wistful glare 
 
 Count all the landmarks, one by one, 
 Until she stands beyond the ridge 
 
 Where blossoms catch the morning sun ; 
 And where the plover builds her nest 
 
 In meadow grasses lush and long. 
 And where in girlhood's happy years 
 
 She raked the hay, with mirthful song. 
 
 The old white stone beside the spring 
 
 Is there, as white and smooth as when 
 She filled her pail and mocked the caw 
 
 Of blackbirds in the reedy glen. 
 And when the gates of morn unfold, 
 
 She knows the sunbeams drifting down 
 Will steal through casements quaint and old, 
 
 And snow-white locks with glory crown. 
 
 She wanders on to where the spring 
 
 Is lost in countless silvery rills, 
 Then drops asleep, her silvery head 
 
 On pillows fringed with daffodils; 
 While in her dream her mother comes 
 
 And strokes her brow with soothing palms 
 That wash away the marks of shame, 
 
 And fill her soul with restful calms. 
 
 337 
 
^ •! 
 
 338 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 She feels warm, quivering kisses on her face 
 
 (The dews that heaven kindly sends), 
 And hears again the dear, brave voice 
 
 That gently censures or commends. 
 The vesper hymns they sang at eve. 
 
 The Sabbath chants of humble praise, 
 Float through her dreams, sweet memories from 
 
 The deathless bliss of childhood's days. 
 
 Ah ! once again she 's young and pure ; 
 
 Ah I once again her sinless brow 
 Is bound with roses rich and red. 
 
 Whose hearts with crimson beauty glow; 
 She hears again the subtle voice 
 
 That taught her love's most bitter pain. 
 On cheek and lips and wrinkled brow 
 
 His kisses fall like summer rain. 
 
 She cries aloud, her yearning hands 1 
 
 Outstretched to meet each fond caress, 
 Then sinks in shame to hide her face 
 
 In dripping clumps of watercress. 
 For what has life for such as her 
 .V But tortured thought, undying pain ; 
 And what are dreams but stray chords from 
 Some old home song or old love strain ? 
 Pittsburgh, 1874. • OLIVE Bell. 
 
 i U 
 
 •t 
 
 FISHERMAN JOB. 
 
 Well, young 'un, you 're mighty smooth spoken, an' it all may 
 
 be as you say. 
 That God never interferes with us, but lets each one go on his 
 
 own way ; 
 But when heaven has silvered your locks with the snows of 
 
 some eighty odd year — 
 As it has mine, an' always in marcy — you'll regret this wild 
 
 fancy, I fear. 
 
 Just let me spin ye a yarn, sir, as happened a long time agone 
 To me, an' if such is all luck, why, I hope it '11 always hold on ; 
 It 's now nearly threescore summers since this incident happened 
 
 to me, — 
 Just after I 'd married my wife, an' settled down here by the sea. 
 
 P'or I was a fisherman born, sir, lovin' always the wild waves 
 
 to ride ; 
 They're the type of my life, an' I'm thinkin' that it's now 
 
 near the ebb o' the tide. 
 There were three of us then as were partners in the trimmest 
 
 an' snug little boat 
 As ever was true to her colors, just a bright little "Sunbeam " 
 
 afloat. 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 339 
 
 We had had a long run o' good luck, sir ; wi' the weather as 
 fair as could be, 
 
 An' the morrow were goin' again, when 'the gray light first 
 dawned on the sea. 
 
 But before I was fairly turned out, it seemed as I heard some- 
 thing say, 
 
 " There 's breakers ahead o' ye, Job ; don't go on the sea, lad, 
 to-day 1" 
 
 At first I felt kind o' scared like, but I thought 't was all fancy, 
 
 you see. 
 So I took a good look at the sky ; 't was as clear and as bright 
 
 as could be. 
 But it still seemed to whisper, " Beware ! " an' the breeze crept 
 
 by soughin' an' slow, 
 An' a voice, like a wail for the dead, with each gust seemed 
 
 to murmur, " Don't go I " 
 
 H 
 
 Then I got kind o' nettled, to think that my narves should 
 
 sarve me that wav ; 
 An' I savs to myself, " Vou 're an ass. Job, but you '11 go for 
 
 all that, lad, this day ! " 
 So I kissed wife a hasty good-by, an' set off a-hummin' a song, 
 Till the path took a turn by that cliff at whose foot the sand 
 
 stretches along. 
 
 Then what happened I never could tell ; but the first I remem- 
 ber, I know, 
 
 The cliff were a frownin' above me, an' I, stunned and bruised, 
 down below. 
 
 An' my wife kneelin' there by my side, an' lookin* as frightened 
 as if 
 
 I were dead. Says she, " Job, were ye crazy } Ye walked right 
 straight off of the cliff!" 
 
 I did n't say much ; an', of course, my partners went that day 
 
 alone ; 
 An' I lay on my bed kind o' happy to find, after all, I 'd not 
 
 gone. 
 But the strangest of all is yet comin' ; for that mornin', as fair 
 
 as could be, 
 Was followed ere noon by a storm as was fairly terrific to see. 
 
 We waited in agony, knowin' such a sea the boat could not 
 
 outride ; 
 An' were thankful when even the bodies were laid at our feet 
 
 by the tide. 
 It 's no use in askin* my fate, if that mornin' I only had gone ; 
 An' if such things all happen by luck, why, I hope it Ml always 
 
 hold on. 
 
 James Roann Reed. 
 
340 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 U \\ 
 
 POOR LITTLE JOE. 
 
 Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey, 
 
 Fur I 've brought you sumpin* great. 
 Apples ? No, but something better I 
 
 Don't you take no int'rest ? Wait ! 
 Flowers, Joe, — I knowed you 'd like 'em — 
 
 Ain't them scrumptious ? Ain't them high ? 
 Tears, my boy ? Wot 's them fur. Joey ? 
 
 There — poor little Joe ! — don't cry. 
 
 I was skippin' past a winder 
 
 Where a bang-up lad} wt 
 All amongst a lot of bu-^i ts, 
 
 Each one climbin' from a pot; 
 Every bush had flowers on it — 
 
 Pretty ? Mebbe ! Oh, no 1 , 
 
 Wish you could a seen 'em growin', 
 
 It was sich a stunnin' show. 
 
 Well, I thought of you, poor feller, 
 
 Lyin' here so sick and weak, 
 Never knowin' any comfort, 
 
 And I puts on lots o' cheek. 
 '• Missus," says I, " if you please, mum, 
 
 Could I ax you for a rose ? 
 For my little brother, missus. 
 
 Never seed one, I suppose." 
 
 Then I told her all about you, — 
 
 How I bringed yer up, poor Joe ! 
 (Lackin' women-folks to do it) 
 
 Such a' imp you was, you know, — 
 Till yer got that awful tumble. 
 
 Just as I had broke yer in 
 (Hard work too) to earn your livin' 
 
 Blackin' boots for honest tin. 
 
 How that tumble crippled of you. 
 
 So 's you could n't hyper much, — 
 Joe, it hurted when I seen you 
 
 Fur the first time with yer crutch. 
 " Put," I says, " he 's laid up now, mum, 
 
 'Pears to weaken every day." 
 Joe, she up and went to cuttin', — 
 
 That 's the how of this bokay. 
 
 Say, it seems to me, ole feller, 
 You is quite yourself to-nigh* ; 
 
 Kind o' chirk ; it 's been a fortnight 
 Since yer eyes has been so bright. 
 
 .a 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 Better? Well, I 'm gi ad to hear it. 
 
 Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe. 
 Smelliii' of 'em 's made you happy ! 
 
 Well, I thought it would, you know. 
 
 Never seed the country, did you ? 
 
 Flowers growin' everyvherc I 
 Sometime, when you 're better, Joey, 
 
 Mebbe I kin take you there. 
 Flowers in heaven ? 'M — I s'pose so ; 
 
 Don't know much about it, though ; 
 Ain't as fly as what I might be 
 
 On them topics, little Joe. 
 
 But I 've heard it hinted, somewheres, 
 
 That in heaven's golden gates 
 Things is everlastin' cheerful, — 
 
 B'lieve that 's wot the Bible states. 
 Likewise, there folks don't get hungry ; 
 
 So good people when they dies 
 Finds themselves wed fixed forever — 
 
 Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes ? 
 
 Thought they looked a little sing'ler. 
 
 Oh, no ! Don't you have no fear ; 
 Heaven was made for such as you is — 
 
 Joe, what makes you look so queer .'* 
 Here — wake up ! Oh, don't look that way I 
 
 Joe ! My boy ! Hold up your head ! 
 Here 's your flowers — yoa dropped 'em, Joey 
 
 Oh, my God I can Joe be dead .-* 
 
 341 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS. 
 
 Clowns are capering in motley, drums are beating, trumpets 
 blown, 
 
 Laughing crowds block up the gangway — husky is the show- 
 man's tone. 
 
 Rapidly the booth is filling, and the rustics wait to hear 
 
 A cadaverous strolling player who will presently appear. 
 
 Once his voice in tones of thunder shook the crazy caravan ; 
 Now he entered pale and gasping, and no sentence glibly ran ; 
 Sad and vacant were his glances, and his memory seemed to 
 
 fail. 
 While with feeble effort striving to recall Othello's tale. 
 
1^ 
 
 ' H 
 
 ',1 I 
 
 t; 
 
 ■W^ 
 
 \ 
 
 
 '' ft 
 
 ^ i 
 
 iii-'i 
 
 
 
 
 
 i^^B^f' 
 
 '^1 
 
 
 3W r H 
 
 
 
 j&iE il ' 
 
 
 
 
 ^^iji 
 
 
 
 1 
 
 
 342 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 O'er his wasted form the spangles glittered in the lamp's dull 
 
 ray; 
 Ebon tresses, long and curling, covered scanty locks of gray ; 
 Rouge and powder hid the traces of the stern, relentless years, 
 As gay flowers hide a ruin, tottering ere it disappears. 
 
 Not with age, serenely ebbing to the everlasting sea, 
 Calmly dreaming of past pleasures, or of mysteries to be ; 
 Nay, the melancholy stroller kept his onward pilgrimage, 
 Until Death, the pallid prompter, called him from life's dusky 
 stage. 
 
 Lofty hopes and aspirations all had faded with his youth. 
 And for daily bread he acted now in yonder canvas booth ; 
 Yet there flashed a fire heroic from his visage worn and grave ; 
 Deeper, fuller came his accents — Man was master. Time was 
 slave. 
 
 And again with force and feeling he portrayed the loving Moor ; 
 Told the story to the Senate — told the pangs which they endi'-e 
 Who are torn with jealous passion, — while delightedly the 
 
 crowd 
 Watched the stroller's changing aspect, and applauded him 
 
 aloud. 
 
 Was it but a trick of acting to depict a frenzied mood, 
 That there came a sudden pilence, and Othello voiceless stood? 
 Ah, 'twas all Othello's story Nature left the power to tell — 
 'Twas his own sad drama ending as the dark-green curtain fell. 
 
 While they shouted for the stroller, and the hero's fate would 
 
 see, 
 He had made his final exit — joined a higher company. 
 With no loving kiss at parting, with no fr end to press his hand. 
 The invisible scene-shifter had unveiled the spirit-land. 
 
 Huskier sti'! became the showman as he forward came and 
 
 bowed. 
 Vaguely muttering excuses to appease the gaping crowd ; 
 Then he knelt beside the stroller, but his words were lost on 
 
 air — 
 Nevermore uprose the curtain on the figure lying there. 
 
 One brief hour their cares forgetting, his old comrades of the 
 
 show 
 Stood around his grave in silence, and some honest tears did 
 
 flow. 
 Then the booth again was opened, crammed with many a rustic 
 
 boor. 
 And another strolling player told the story of the Moor. 
 TinsUys Magazine, Joseph Verey. 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 343 
 
 1 the lamp's dull 
 
 IN BAY CHALEUR. 
 
 1 applauded him 
 
 lero's fate would 
 
 rward came and 
 
 The birds no more in dooryard trees are singing, 
 
 The purple swallows all have left the eaves, 
 And 'thwart the sky the broken clouds are winging, 
 
 Shading the land-slopes, bright with harvest-sheaves. 
 Old Hannah waits her sailor-boy returning, 
 
 His fair young brow to-day she hopes to bless ; 
 But sees the red sun on the hill-tops burning. 
 
 The flying cloud, the wild, cold gloominess 
 Of Bay Chaleur. 
 
 The silver crown has touched her forehead lightly 
 
 Since last his hand was laid upon her hair ; 
 The golden crown will touch her brow more brightly 
 
 Ere he again shall print his kisses there. 
 The night comes on, the village sinks in slumber, 
 
 The rounded moon illumes the water's rim ; 
 Each evening hour she hears the old clock number, 
 
 But brings the evening no return of him 
 To Bay Chaleur. 
 
 She heard low murmurs in the sandy reaches. 
 
 And knew the sea no longer was at rest ; 
 The black clouds scudded o'er the level beaches. 
 
 And barred the moonlight on the ocean's breast. 
 The night wore on, and grew the shadows longer ; 
 
 Far in the distance of the silvered seas 
 Tides lapped the rocks, and blew the night-wind stronger. 
 
 Bending the pines and stripping bare the trees 
 Round Bay Chaleur. 
 
 Then Alice came ; on Hannah's breast reclining, 
 
 She heard the leaves swift whistling in the breeze, 
 And, through the lattice, saw the moon declining 
 
 In the deep shadows of the rainy seas. 
 The fire burned warm, — upon the hearth was sleeping 
 
 The faithful dog that used his steps to follow. 
 '"T is almost midnight," whispered Alice, weepuig. 
 
 While blew the winds more drearily and hollow 
 O'er Bay Chaleur. 
 
 No organ stands beneath a bust of Pallas, 
 
 No painted Marius to the ruin clings. 
 No Ganymede, borne up from airy Hellas, 
 
 Looks through the darkness 'neath the eagle's wings. 
 But the sweet pictures from the shadowed ceiling 
 
 Reflect the firelight near old Hannah's chair, — 
 One a fair girl, with features full of feeling, 
 
 And one a boy, a fisher, young and fair, 
 Of Bay Chaleur. 
 
■ ■•:H 
 
 344 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Ihe boy retnrns with humble presents laden, 
 
 For on the morrow is his wedding morn ; 
 To the old church he hopes to lead the maiden 
 
 Whose head now rests his mother's breast upon. 
 Now Hannah droops her cheek, the maiden presses, - 
 
 " He will return when come the morning hours, 
 And he vill greet thee with his fond caresses, 
 
 And thou shalt meet him diademed with flowers." 
 Sweet Bay Chaleurl 
 
 Gray was the morning, but a light more tender 
 
 Parted at last the storm-cloud's lingering glooms ; 
 The sun looked forth in mellowness and splendor. 
 
 Drying the leaves amid the gentian blooms. 
 And wrecks came drifting to the sandy reaches, 
 
 As inward rolled the ticie with sullen roar; 
 The fishers wandered o'er the sea- washed beaches. 
 
 And gathered fragments as they reached the shore 
 Of Bay Chaleur. 
 
 Then Alice, with the village maidens roaming 
 
 Upon the beaches where the breakers swirl, 
 Espied a fragment *mid the waters foaming, 
 
 And found a casket overlaid with pearl. 
 It was a treasure. " Happy he who claimed it," 
 
 A maiden said, " 't is worthy of a bride." 
 Another maid "the ocean's dowry" named it ; 
 
 But gently Alice, weeping, turned aside, — 
 Sad Bay Chaleur ! — 
 
 And went to Hannah with the new-found treasure, 
 
 And stood again beside the old arm-chair ; 
 The maids stood round her, radiant with pleasure. 
 
 And playful wove the gentians in her hair. 
 Then Hannah said, her feelings ill dissembling, 
 
 "Some sailor-lad this treasure once possessed; 
 And now, perhaps," she added, pale and trembling, 
 
 " His form lies sleeping 'neath the ocean's breast. 
 In Bay Chaleur." 
 
 Now on her knee the opened box she places, — 
 
 Her trembling hand falls helpless on her breast; 
 Into her face look up two pictured faces. 
 
 The faces that her sailor-boy loved best. 
 One picture bears the written words, " My mother," — 
 
 Old Hannah drops her wrinkled cheek in pain ; 
 "Alice," sweet name, is writ beneath the other — 
 
 Old Hannah's tears fall over it like rain. 
 Dark Bay Chaleur I 
 
 The spring will come, the purple swallows bringing, 
 The green leaves glitter where the gold leaves fell ; 
 
 But nevermore the time of flowers and singing ,^ 
 Will hope revive in her poor heart to dwell. \. 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 345 
 
 t 
 
 Life ne'er had brought to her so dark a chalice, 
 But from her lips escaped no bitter moan ; 
 
 They, 'mid the gentians, made the grave of Alice, 
 And Hannah lives in her old cot alone, 
 liy Bay Chaleur. 
 
 IlEZEKIAII BUTTERWORTir. 
 
 THE NEW MAGDALEN. 
 
 The Memphis Appeal, a short time ago, told the story of a fallen woman 
 of that place, Mollie Cooke by name, who, owning a gilded palace of sin, 
 turned it into a hospital for the yellow-fever sufferers, and with her hands 
 nursed the sick and dying back to life again, until at last, wearied and ex- 
 hausted wilh the long watching, she too fell a prey to the fever. I am told 
 that a marble shaft, the gift of the city, marks her last resting-place in the 
 cemetery there ; and it seems but a fitting tribute to one who gave all she 
 had — hei life — to redeem the eirors of the past. 
 
 The yellow death came stealing 
 
 Up from the river's edge ; 
 Up from the dark, dark morass. 
 
 With its tangled fringe of sedge ; 
 Up from the misty bayous. 
 
 On the south wind's tainted breath, — 
 Till the skies grew dark at Memphis 
 
 With the shadowy wings of death. 
 
 The air grew dense and silent, 
 
 The wild bird ceased its song. 
 And strong men cried in anguish, 
 
 " How long, O God, how long ? " 
 But the skies gave back no answer. 
 
 Death's pitiless scythe still swung. 
 And the harvest the reaper gathered 
 
 Was a harvest of old and young. 
 
 The babe in the cradle sleeping, 
 
 In the flush of morning light. 
 With a smile of dimpled features. 
 
 In a coffin slept at night ; 
 And the man who knelt at evening, 
 
 Thar.king God for the strength he gave. 
 Lay down to sleep at dawning 
 
 In the cold and narrow grave. 
 
 The pavements only echoed 
 
 To the wheels of the passing hearse. 
 As it bore to the silent city 
 
 The victim? of the curse ; 
 And the voice of the stricken mourners, 
 
 Who heard not the rustling wing, 
 But saw on the sleeper's forehead 
 
 The seal of the saffron king. 
 
 m 
 
 % 
 
I' 
 
 346 
 
 1! 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Then out from the gilded palace 
 
 Of sorrow, and sin, and shame, 
 Clad in the robes of scarlet, 
 
 A fallen woman came ; 
 And the song of the noisy revel 
 
 Gave place in its stately hall 
 To a prayer for the sick and dying, 
 
 And a woma.i'- soft footfall. 
 
 Back from death's dark portal, 
 
 From the verge of an unseen land, 
 Came many a wandering mortal 
 
 At the touch of that woman's hand ; 
 Till the fever, wrathful, sullen, 
 
 Touched her with his tainted breath. 
 And asleep, in snowy garment, 
 
 She lay in the arms of death. 
 
 Oh, girl with the jewelled fingers, ' 
 
 Oh, maid with the laces rare. 
 Will that woman's grand action 
 
 Count less than thy studied prayer ? 
 Have the angels, looking earthward, 
 
 A love more tender seen 
 Than that of this fallen woman, — 
 
 The true new Magdalen ? 
 
 R. L. Cary, Jr. 
 
 FOR LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 " Nought to be done," — eh ? It was that he said,— 
 
 The doctor, as you stopped him at the door ? 
 Nay, never try to smile and shake thy head, 
 
 I could ha' told thee just as well afore. 
 I have n't lived these thirty year to want 
 
 Parsons or women telling what is nigh 
 When the pulse hovers, and the breath is scant. 
 
 And all grows dim before the glazing eye. 
 
 I felt that something gave, here, at my heart, 
 
 In that last tussle down there on the Scar ; 
 Nay, never -rry, fond lassie as thou art. 
 
 Thou wilt do fine without me — better far. 
 Thou 'st been a good and patient wife to me 
 
 Sin' that spring day, last year, when we were wed ; 
 I never meant so cold and strange to be ; 
 
 Come, and I '11 tell thee. Sit here by my bed. 
 
 So, where the sunshine rests upon thy hair. 
 It shows almost as smooth and bright as hers 
 
 The girl I wooed in Dunkerque, over there — 
 Fie, how the thought the slackening life-blood stirs I 
 
 t ■ 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 347 
 
 Oh, wild black eyes, so quick to flish and fill I 
 Oh, rich red lips, so ripe for kiss and vow I 
 
 Did not your spell work me enow of ill. 
 That ye must haunt and vex me even now ? 
 
 I swore, as we drove out into the gale, 
 
 And staggering down mid-channel went the boat, 
 Never at Dunkerque pier to furl my sail, 
 
 While I and the old "Lion " kept afloat, — 
 The pier where she and her French lover laughed 
 
 At the poor, trusting fool, who had his dr^ ; 
 Quick though his hand flew to his keen knife's haft. 
 
 The Kuglish fist was yet more quick and true. 
 
 She and her beaten sweetheart, do they prate 
 
 Yet of hev triumph ? Let them, an they please. 
 I shall know nought about it, lying straight 
 
 Up on the headland, 'neath the tall fir-trees. 
 I wish I could ha' been content, my lass. 
 
 With thee, and thy blue eyes and quiet ways : 
 Thou hast thy bairn, and as the calm years pass 
 
 Thou wilt forget thy stormy April days. 
 
 Thou 'rt young and bonnie still, my wench. Thou 'It make 
 
 A happy wife yet. Choose some quiet chap. 
 Who '11 love the little 'un for thy sweet sake, 
 
 And bear thee to some inland home, mayhap. 
 We 're rough and stern, we on the seaboard bred. 
 
 And can't forget, or smooth a rankling wound. 
 Come close ; there 's just one thing left to be said. 
 
 Before I 'm dumb forever, and under ground. 
 
 Last night they watched the life-boat driven back, 
 
 The rocket oattling vainly with the blast. 
 While the good bark, amid the roar and wrack. 
 
 Drove headlong — struck, and lay there, hard and fast. 
 They neither saw nor heeded, as the flash 
 
 Of cold blue fire lit all, above, below, 
 The French flag flying o'er the whirl and crash, 
 
 " Louise, Dunkerque," the letters on her prow. 
 
 I saw, plunged, fought, and reached the sinking bark. 
 
 The old, hot poison fierce in every vein, 
 Seized on two sailors, shrieking in the dark. 
 
 Bore them to land, and turned to swim again. 
 Clasping the rigging yet one man I found ; 
 
 I caught him, struggled on ; the beach was near, — 
 " Louise," he gasped, and, 'mid the roar around, 
 
 I knew the voice last heard on Dunkerque pier. 
 
 The murderer's lust surged to the throbbing heart, 
 The murderer's cunning loosed the saving hand ; 
 
 'T was but to let him go ; I 'd done my part — 
 Praised and avenged! Why, thus 'twere well to land. 
 
 !* t. 
 
348 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 But she — No cloud on her bright life should rest 
 An I could ward it ; love and hate at strife 
 
 A moment, then, snatchod from the breaker's crest, 
 I dragged him, stunned and bleeding, back to life. 
 
 Somehow I hurt myself, and so it's over, 
 
 And better so for all. Thou 'it rear the lad 
 To make some Yorkshire Jass an honest lover, 
 
 Nor tell him all the wrong his mother had ; 
 And sometimes, — for thou 'rt kind, — when stars are out. 
 
 In the green country, where no tempests blow. 
 Thou 'It say, " Thy father had his faults, no doubt, 
 
 lint still he died to save his bitterest foe." 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 TiiR setting sun, with dying beams, 
 Had waked the purple hill to fire. 
 And citadel and dome and spire 
 
 Were gilded by the far-off gleams; 
 
 And in and out dark pine-trees crept 
 Full many a slender thread of gold ; 
 
 Gold shafts athwart the river swept, 
 And kissed it as it onward rolled : 
 
 And sunlight lingered, loath to go ; 
 
 Ah, well ! it causeth sorrow 
 
 To part from those we love below ; 
 
 And yet the sun as bright shall glow 
 To-morrow. 
 
 Two hearts have met to say farewell 
 
 At even when the sun went down ; 
 
 Each life-sound from the busy town 
 Smote sadly as a passing bell. 
 One whispered, " Parting is sweet pain — 
 
 At morn and eve returns the tide ; " 
 ** Nay, parting rends the heart in twain." 
 
 And still they linger side by side ; 
 And still they linger, loath to go ; 
 Ah, well 1 it causeth sorrow 
 To part from those we love below — 
 For shall we ever meet or no, 
 
 To-morrow? 
 
 DRIFTED OUT TO SEA. 
 
 Two little ones, grown tired of play, 
 Roamed by the sea, one summer day. 
 Watching the great waves come and go. 
 Prattling, as children will, you know, 
 Of dolls and marbles, kites and strings ; 
 Sometimes hinting at graver things. 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 349 
 
 At last they spied within their reach 
 An old boat cast upon the 'ocach ; 
 HcUcr-skcltcr, with merry din, 
 Over it3 sides they scrambled in, — 
 lien, with his tangled, nut-brown hair, 
 Bess, with her sweet face flushed and fair. 
 
 Rolling in from the briny deep, 
 Nearer, nearer, the f^rcat waves creep, 
 Higher, higher, upon the sands. 
 Reaching out with their giant hands, 
 Grasping the boat in boisterous glee, 
 Tossing it up and out to sea. 
 
 The sun went down, 'mid clouds of gold ; 
 Night came, with footsteps damp and cold ; 
 Day dawned ; tlie hours crept slowly by ; 
 And now across the sunny sky 
 A black cloud stretches far away, 
 And shuts the golden gates of day. 
 
 A storm comes on, with flash and roar. 
 While all the sky is shrouded o'er ; 
 The great waves, rolling from the west, 
 Bring night and darkness on their breast. 
 Still floats the boat through driving storm. 
 Protected by God's powerful arm. 
 
 The home-bound vessel, " Sea-bird," lies 
 In ready trim, 'twixt sea and skies ; 
 Her captain paces, restless now, 
 A troubled look upon his brow. 
 While all his nerves with terror thrill, — 
 The shadow of some coming ill. 
 
 The mate comes up to where he stands. 
 And grasps his arm with eager hands. 
 *' A boat has just swept past," says he, 
 " Bearing two children out to sea ; 
 'T is dangerous now to put about. 
 Yet they cannot be saved without." 
 
 ** Nought but their safety will sufiice! 
 They must be saved I " the captain cries. 
 " By every thought that's just and right. 
 By lips I hoped to ki>s to-night, 
 I 11 peril vessel, life, and men, 
 And God will not forsake us then." 
 
 With anxious faces, one and all, 
 
 Each man responded to the call ; • 
 
 n 
 
350 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And when at last, through driving storm, 
 They lifted up each little form, 
 The captain started, with a groan : 
 " My God is good, they are my own I " 
 
 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe 
 {Author of" Curfew Shall Not Ring To-night "). 
 
 TWO. 
 
 f" ] 
 
 
 II' 
 
 
 • >i 
 
 We two will stand in the shadow here, 
 
 To see the bride as she pas cs by; 
 Ring soft and low, ring loud and clear, 
 
 Ye chiming bells that swing on high ! 
 Lool'. I look ! she comes ! The air grows sweet 
 
 With the fragrant breath of the orange-blooms, 
 And the flowers she treads beneath her feet 
 
 Die in a flood of rare perfumes ! 
 
 She comes I she comes I The happy bells 
 
 With their joyous clamor fill the air. 
 While the great organ dies and swells. 
 
 Soaring to trembling heights of prayer I 
 Oh I rare are her robes of silken sheen, 
 
 And the pearls that gleam on her bosom's snow ; 
 But rarer the grace of her royal mien, 
 
 Her hair's fine gold, and her cheek's young glow. 
 
 Dainty and fair as a folded rose, 
 
 FVesh as a violet dewy sweet. 
 Chaste as a lily, she hardly knows 
 
 That there are rough paths for other feet. 
 For Love hath shielded her; Honor kept 
 
 Watch beside her night and day ; 
 And Evil out from her sight hath creot, 
 
 Trailing its slow length far away. 
 
 Now in her perfect womanhood, 
 
 In all the wealth of her matchless charms, 
 Lovely and beautiful, pure atid good, 
 
 She yicld'« herself to her lover's arms. 
 Hark ! how the jubilant voices ring ! 
 
 Lo I as we stand in the shadow here, 
 While far above us the gay bells swing, 
 
 I catch the gleam of a happy tear ! 
 
 The pageant is over. Come with me 
 To the other side of the town, I i)ray. 
 
 Ere the sun goes down in the darkening sea. 
 And night falls around us, chill and gray. 
 
 I I 
 
WITH A STORY TO TELL. 
 
 In the dim church porch an hour ago 
 We waited the bride's fair face to see ; 
 
 Now life has a sadder sight to show, 
 A darker picture for you and me. 
 
 No need to seek for the shadow here, 
 
 There are shadows lurking everywhere ; 
 These streets in the brightest days are drear, 
 
 And black as the blackness of despair. 
 But this is the house. Take heed, my friend, 
 
 The stairs are rotten, the way is dim ; 
 And up the flights, as wc still ascend. 
 
 Creep, stealthily, phantoms dark and grim. 
 
 351 
 
 Enter this chamber. Day by day, 
 
 Alone in this chill and ghostly room, 
 A child — a woman — which is it, pray? — 
 
 Despairingly waits for the hour of doom ! 
 Ah ! as she wrings her hands so pale. 
 
 No gleam of a wedding-ring you see ; 
 There s nothing to tell. You know the tale — 
 
 God help her now in her misery I 
 
 I dare not judge her. I only know 
 
 That love was to her a sin and a snare. 
 While to the bride of an hour ago 
 
 It brought all blessings its hands could bear I 
 I only know that to one it came 
 
 Laden with honor and joy and peace; 
 Its gifts to the other were woe and shame, 
 
 And a burning pain that shall never cease. 
 
 ift 
 
 I only know that the soul of one 
 
 Mas been a pearl in a golden case; 
 That of the other a ])cbble thrown 
 
 Idly down in a wayside place, 
 Where all day long strange footsteps trod. 
 
 And the bold, bright sun drank up the dew ! 
 Yet both were women. O righteous God, 
 
 Thou only canst judge between the two I 
 
 THE COURT OF BERLIN. 
 
 King Frederick, of Prussia, grew nervous and ill 
 When pacing his chamber one day, 
 
 Because of the sound of a crazy old mill 
 That clattered so over the way. 
 
s;'.i 
 
 352 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 " Ho, miller ! " cried he, " what sum shall you take 
 
 In lieu of that wretched old shell ? 
 It angers my brain and it keeps me awake." 
 
 Said the miller, " I want not to sell." 
 
 " But you must," said the king, in a passion for once. 
 
 " Hut I won't," said the man, in a heat. 
 " Gods I this to my face .-• Ye are daft, c a dunce — 
 
 We can raze your old mill with the street." 
 
 " Ay, true, my good sire, if such be your mood," 
 
 Then answered the man with a grin ; 
 " IJut never you '11 move it the tenth of a rood 
 
 As long as a court 's in Berlin." 
 
 " Good, good," said the king, — for the answer was grand, 
 
 As opposing the Law to the Crown, — 
 " We bow to the court, and the mill shall stand, 
 
 Though even the palace come down." 
 
 Frankfort Yeoman. 
 
vou take 
 
 n for once. 
 
 a dunce — 
 
 ;t." 
 
 lood," 
 )od 
 
 I' •! 
 
 «rer was grand, 
 tand, 
 
 PART XII. 
 
 parting and m^tntt. 
 
 Ill 
 
 *$ 
 
\ I; 
 
 W/:y, -u'/iy repine, my friend, 
 
 At flcastircs sl'tpt away ? 
 Some the stern Fates ■will never lend. 
 
 And all refuse to stay. 
 
 I see the rainbow in the sky, 
 
 The dew vpon the rr ass, — 
 I sec them, and I ask not why 
 
 They glimmer ur they pass. 
 
 With folded arms I linger not 
 
 To call them back ; V 7vere vain ; 
 Ih this or in seme other spot 
 I know they HI shine again. 
 
 Walter S. Landor. 
 
 't r 
 
PART XII. 
 
 patting anti "M^mtt* 
 
 •*o^ 
 
 " GOOD-BY." 
 
 m 
 
 S. Landor. 
 
 We say it for an nour or for years ; 
 We say it smiling, say it choked with tears; 
 Vv'e say it coldly, say it with a kiss ; 
 And yet we have no other word than this, — 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 We have no dearer word for our heart's friend, 
 For him who journeys to the world's far end, 
 And scars our soul with going ; thus we say, 
 As unto him who steps but o'er the way, — 
 
 " Good-by!" 
 
 Alike to those we love and those we hate, 
 We say no more in parting. At life's gate, 
 To him who passes out bcvond earth's sight, 
 We cry, as to the wanderer for a night, — 
 
 " Good-by." 
 
 1\ 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 Ik thou dost l>id thy friend farewell, 
 
 r>ut for one night though that farewell may be. 
 
 Press thou his hand in thine. 
 
 IIow canst thou tell how far from thee 
 
 Vate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? 
 
 Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street, 
 
 And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years, 
 
 Kre they hi'-e looked in loving eyes again. 
 
 Parting, r.i best, is underlaid 
 
 With tears and pain. 
 
• ' 
 
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 im 
 
 3 .''fir ■ ■■ 
 
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 ■. 
 
 356 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Therefore, lest sudden death should come between, 
 
 Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm 
 
 The hand of him who goeth forth ; 
 
 Unseen, Fate goeth too. 
 
 Yes, find thou rlways time to say some earnest word 
 
 Between the idle talk, 
 
 Lest with thee henceforth. 
 
 Night and day, regret should walk. 
 
 Coventry Patmore. 
 
 ] M 
 
 ' m 
 
 t ' 
 
 VI 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The crimson sunset faded into grav ; 
 
 Upon the murmurous sea the twilight fell ; 
 The last warm breath of the delicious day 
 
 Passed with a mute farewell. , 
 
 Above my head in the soft purple sky 
 
 A wild note .sounded like a shrill-voiced bell : 
 Three gulls met, wheeled, and parted with a cry 
 That seemed to say, " Farewell I" 
 
 I watched them ; one sailed east and one soared wcbt 
 
 And one went floating south ; while like a knell 
 That mournful cry the empty sky possessed, 
 " Farewell, farewell, farew-ell \ " 
 
 " Farewell ! " I thought ; it is earth's one sad speech, — 
 
 All human voices the sad chorus swell ; 
 Though mighty love to heaven's high gates may reach, 
 Yet must he say, " Farewell I " 
 
 The rolling world is girdled with the sound, 
 
 Perpetually breathed from all who dwell 
 Upon its bosom, for no place is found 
 
 Where is not heard, " Farewell I " 
 
 " Farewell, farewell," — from wave to wave 't is tossed. 
 
 From wind to wind ; earth has one tale to tell ; 
 All other sounds are dulled and drowned and lost, 
 In this one cry, " Farewell 1 " 
 
 Atlantic Monthly. 
 
 ONLY. 
 
 And this is the end of it all I it rounds the year's completeness ; 
 Only a walk to the stile, through fields afoam with sweetness ; 
 Only the sunset light, purple and red on the river, 
 Ana a lingering, low good-night, that means good-by forever. 
 
PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 357 
 
 RY PATMORE. 
 
 So be it ! and God be with you ! It had been perhaps more 
 
 kind, 
 Had you sooner (pardon the word) been sure of knowing your 
 
 mind. 
 We can bear so much in youth — who cares for a swift, sharp 
 
 pain ? 
 And the two-edged sword of truth cuts deep, but it leaves no 
 
 stain. 
 
 I shall just go back to my work — my little household cares, 
 'I'hat never make any show. l}y time, perhaps in my prayers, 
 I may think of you ! For the rest, on this way we 've trodden 
 
 together 
 My foot shall fall as lightly as if my heart were a feather. 
 
 And not a woman's heart, strong to have and to keep. 
 Patient when children cry, soft to lull them to sleep, 
 Hiding its secrets close, glad when another's hand 
 Finds for itself a gem where hers found only sand. 
 
 Good-by I The year has been bright. As oft as the blossoms 
 
 come, 
 The peach with its waxen pink, the waving snow of the plum, 
 I shall think how I used to watch, so happy to sec you pass, 
 I could almost kiss the print of your foot on the dewy grass. 
 
 I am not ashamed of my love ! Yet I would not have yours 
 
 now, 
 Though you laid it down at my feet ; I could not stoop so low. 
 A love is but half a love that contents itself with less 
 Than love's utmost faith and truth and unwavering tenderness. 
 
 Only this wa'.k to the stile ; this parting word by the river, 
 That flows so quiet and cold, ebbing and flowing forever. 
 "Good-by!" Let me wait to hear the last, last sound of his 
 
 feet ! 
 Ah me ! but I think in this life of ours the bitter outweighs the 
 
 sweet. 
 The Argosy. 
 
 
 
 \ J 
 
 BEFORE SAILING. 
 
 Lean closer, darling, let thy tender heart 
 
 Beat against mine that aches with heavy woe ; 
 Drop thy quick woman's tears to soothe thy smart. 
 
 Ah me 1 that I could ease my sorrow so I 
 But man must work, sweetheart, and women weep. 
 
 So says the song, so runs the world's behest ; 
 Yet time will pass, and tender comfort creep 
 
 With hope in company unto thy breast. 
 Now, ere we part, while yet on lip and cheek 
 
 Close kisses linger, clinging, passionate, 
 
 I 
 

 358 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 There is a farewell word love fain would speak, 
 
 A tender thought love labors to translate 
 In earnest words, whose memory through the years 
 Shall calm thy soul and dry thy dropping tears. 
 
 If in thy garden, when the roses blow, 
 
 Or by the shelter of thine evening fire, 
 In any winter gloom or summer glow, 
 
 Thy soul Hoats seaward with a fond desire 
 (Fonder and stronger than thy tender use), 
 
 Thinjc thou, " One longs for me across the foam ; " 
 And if, sweet-falling like the evening dews, 
 
 A special peace enfolds that heart and home, 
 Then say thou, dear, with softly bated breath, 
 
 "In some lone wilderness beyond the sea, 
 Whether in light of life, or gloom of death. 
 
 My lover's spirit speaks to (iod for me ! " 
 Kiss me, beloved, without doubt or dread ; 
 ' Vn are not sundered, though farewell be said. 
 All iJic i car Round , 
 
 GOOD-NIG IIT. 
 
 If'<: 
 
 \ I 
 
 '\ .1 
 
 GooD-NiGHT, dear friend ! I say good-night to thee 
 Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, 
 
 Bridging all space between us, it may be. 
 Lean low, sweet friend ; it is the last good-night. 
 
 For, lying low upon my couch, and still. 
 The fever flush evanished fnnn my face, 
 
 I heard them whisper softly, " 'Tis His will ; 
 Angels will give her happier resting-place 1 " 
 
 And so from sight of tears that fell like rain. 
 
 And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low, 
 
 I turned my white face to the window-pane, 
 I'o say good-night to thee before I go. 
 
 Good-night ! good-night ! I do not fear the end, 
 The conflict with the billows dark and high ; 
 
 Ard yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, 
 I think it would be easier to die; 
 
 If I could feel through all the quiet waves 
 Of my deep hair thy tender breath athrill, 
 
 I could go downward to the place of graves 
 With eyes ashine and pale lips smiling still; 
 
 Or it may be that, if through all the strife 
 And pain of parting I should hear thy call, 
 
 I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, 
 And know no mystery of death at all. 
 
 ■I * 
 
PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 359 
 
 It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-niyht ! 
 
 And when you see the viuiots again, 
 And hear, through boughs with swollen buds awhitc, 
 
 The gentle falling of the April rain, 
 
 Remember her whose young life held thy name 
 With all things holv, in its outward flight, 
 
 And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men 
 To hear again her low good-night ! good-night ! 
 
 HeSTLR A. liEXEDICl'. 
 
 SAD VENTURES. 
 
 I STOOD and watched my ships go out, 
 Each, one by one, unmooring, free, 
 
 What time the quiet harbor filled 
 With flood-tide from the sea. 
 
 The first that sailed, her name wa.- |oy; 
 
 She spread a smooth, white, shining sail, 
 And eastward drove with bending spars 
 
 Before the sighing gale. 
 
 Another sailed, her name was 1 .pe ; 
 
 No cargo in her hold she bore ; 
 Thinking to find in western lands 
 
 Of merchandise a store. 
 
 The next that sailed, her name was Love ; 
 
 She showed a red flag at her mast, — 
 A flag as red as blood she showed. 
 
 And she sped south right fast. 
 
 The last that sailed, her name was Faith ; 
 
 Slowly she took her passage forth, 
 Tacked and lay to ; at last she steered 
 
 A straight course for the north. 
 
 My gallant ships, they sailed away 
 Over the shimmering summer sea ; 
 
 I stood at watch for many a day — 
 But one came back to me. 
 
 For Joy was caught bv pirate Pain ; 
 
 Hope ran ujion a hidden reef, 
 And Love took fire and foundered fast 
 
 In whelming seas of grief. 
 
f" 
 
 360 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Faith came at last, storm-beat and torn 
 She recompensed me all my loss ; 
 
 For, as a cargo safe, she brought 
 A crown linked to a cross. 
 Boston Cultivator. 
 
 HOPE DEFERRED. 
 
 His hand at last I By his own fingers writ, 
 I catch my name upon the wayworn sheet : 
 
 His hand — oh, reach it to mc quick I And yet, 
 Scarce can 1 hold, so fast my pulses beat. 
 
 O feast of soul I O banquet richly spread ! 
 
 () passion-lettered scroll from o'er the sea I 
 Like a fresh burst of life to one long dead, 
 
 Joy, strength, and bright content come back with thee. 
 
 Long prayed and waited for through months so drear ; 
 
 Each day methought my waiting heart must break ; 
 Why is it that our loved ones grow more dear 
 
 The more we suffer for their sweetest sake ? 
 
 His hand at last I each simple word aglow 
 With truthful tenderness and promise sweet. 
 
 Now to my daily tasks I '11 singing go. 
 Fed by the music of this wayworn sheet. 
 
 I ! 
 
 'v\. * 
 
 ''•i 
 
 1 
 
 i ^ '• 
 
 i ■ 
 i 'l 
 
 % till 
 1 ll'lil 
 
 FATE. 
 
 As two proud ships upon the pathless main 
 Meet once and never hope to meet again, — 
 Meet once with merry signallings, and i)art, 
 Each homeward bound to swell the crowded mart, 
 So we two met, one golden summer day. 
 Within the shelter of life's dreaming bay. 
 And rested, calmly anchored from the world, 
 For one brief hour, with snowy pinions furled; 
 liut when the sun sank low along the west. 
 We left our harbor, with its peaceful rest, 
 And floated outward in life's tangled sea 
 With foam-kissed waves between us, wild and free. 
 As two ships part upon the trackless main. 
 So we two parted. Shall we meet again } 
 
PAKTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 361 
 
 ck with thee, 
 
 THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT, TO MEM'RY DEAR. 
 
 Sweetheart, good-by ! The fluttering sail 
 
 Is spread to waft me far from thcc, 
 And soon before the fav'ring gale 
 
 My ship shall bound upon the sea. 
 Perchance, all desolate and forlorn, 
 
 These eyes shall miss thee many a year, 
 Hut unforgottcn every charm, — 
 
 Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear. 
 
 Sweetheart, good-by ! one last embrace ! 
 
 O cruel Fate, true souls to sever! 
 Yet in this heart's m.)st sacred place 
 
 Thou, thou alone shalt dwell forever ! 
 And still shall recollection trace, 
 
 In Fancy's mirror, ever near, 
 Each smile, each tear, that form, that face, — 
 
 Though lost to sight, to mem'ry dear. 
 
 ( Verses written in an old nicmoraiidtwi-book. 
 The author unknown.) 
 
 HIS MESSENGER. 
 
 Marjorie, with the waiting face, 
 
 Marjorie, with the pale brown hair, 
 She sits and sews in the silent place. 
 
 She counts the steps on the outer stair. 
 Two, three, four — they pass her door. 
 
 The patient face droops low again, 
 Still it is as it was before — 
 Oh ! will he come indeed no more. 
 
 And are her prayers all prayed in vain ? 
 
 Through the warm and the winter night, 
 
 Marjorie, with the wistful eves. 
 She keeps her lonely lamp alight 
 
 Until the stars arc dim in the skies. 
 Through the gray and the shining day 
 
 Her pallid fingers, swift and slim. 
 Set their stitches, nor one astray, 
 Though her heart it is far away, 
 
 Over the summer seas with him. 
 
 Over the distant summer seas 
 Marjorie's yearning fancies fly ; 
 
 She feels the kiss of the island breeze, 
 She sees the blue of the tropic sky. 
 
 '1 
 
362 THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 Docs she know, as they come and go, 
 Those waves that lap the island shore, 
 
 That under their ceaseless ebb and flow 
 
 Golden locks float to and fro, — 
 
 TanpleU locks she will comb no more ? 
 
 Many a hopeless hope she keeps, 
 
 Marjorie with the aching heart ; 
 Sometimes she smiles, and sometimes she weeps, 
 
 At thoughts that all unhidden start. 
 I can sec what the end will be : 
 
 Some day when the Master sends for her, 
 A voice sne knows will say joyfully, 
 " God is waiting for Marjorie," 
 
 And her lover will be his messenger. 
 
 ^M 
 
lore, 
 iow 
 
 ore ? 
 
 s she weeps, 
 
 for her, 
 
 '*i<( ;:' 
 
 er. 
 
 PART XIII. 
 
 Cragetip and c^orrotu* 
 
 ;m ', 
 
Nl 
 
 1^ 
 
 ii 
 
 
 fi 
 
 
 Suc/i is my ttame, and such my tale, 
 
 C 'on/i-ssor ! to thy secret ear 
 J breathe the sorrcnvs I bewail, 
 
 Auil thank' thee for the f;encrous tear 
 This glazing rye could never shed. 
 Then lay vie -uith the humblest dead, 
 And, save the cross above my head, 
 lie neither name nor emblem spread. 
 
 Byron. 
 
it'il' 
 
 PART XIII. 
 
 Cragebp attb ^onroto* 
 
 M, 
 '^u 
 
 a 
 
 THE ASH POOL. 
 
 Thf, wet wind sobs o'er the sodden leas, 
 
 And wails througii the branches of leafless trees, 
 
 As mourning the seeds in the fallows lost, 
 
 And the pale buds pccjjing to die in the frost, 
 
 When Winter asserts his lingering reign, 
 
 And his sceptre glitters on hill and plain. 
 
 Drearily meadows and upl.inds lie 
 
 'Neath the low long sweep of sullen sky. 
 
 And, sad and still as the hushed green Vulc, 
 
 'Neath the straggling boughs lies the Great Ash Pool. 
 
 IMack and cold, and stagnant and deep, 
 
 No silvery fins from its waters leap ; 
 
 No brown wings flutter, no pattering feet, 
 
 Tell that life in its banks finds safe retreat; 
 
 No lily-buds to its surface cling, 
 
 l>ut docken and nightshade around it spring; 
 
 The very trees that about it stand 
 
 Are twisted and gnarled as by witches' hand, 
 
 And the ghost of a story of sm and dule 
 
 Like a mist hangs over the CJreat Ash J'ool. 
 
 Wlicii June's soft m.igic is on the earth, 
 
 And the rose and the violet spring to birth. 
 
 When the bright becks tlance 'neath the bright leaves' shade, 
 
 And the wild birds carol from glen and glade, 
 
 Not a sunbeam glints on its breast to p.ay, 
 
 Not a murmur welcomes the golden day. 
 
 No children loiter beside its brink, 
 
 No shv fawn lingers its wave to drink; 
 
 The old tree's shadow is deep and cool, 
 
 Vet no lovers keep tryst at the Oreat Ash Pool. 
 
 I' 
 
 i- 
 
 Mir 
 
 If 
 
 i. 
 
 ': IH 
 
 m 
 
 ^1 
 
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 vZ 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 •■! '4 
 
■V i 
 
 366 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Yet once by its waters wild vows were spoken, 
 
 In passion heard and in falsehood broken, 
 
 Two bright heads over its margin bent, 
 
 When the moon tc "'s depths soft radiance lent; 
 
 A little while and one face lay there. 
 
 With its blue eyes glazed in their last despair, — 
 
 Eyes that stared upward through weed and slime. 
 
 With their story of sorrow, and shame, and crime ; 
 
 So, in glory of summer, or gladness of Yule, 
 
 A curse hangs over the Great Ash Pool. 
 
 ACCURSED. 
 
 w 
 
 '1 i 
 
 Palltd white the moonlight gloweth 
 
 Through the shadows weird and dim : 
 Mournfully the river floweth 
 Past the cedars gaunt and grim. 
 
 Soft across the twilight bar, 
 
 In the rosy light afar, 
 Like a gem of antique splendor, 
 Gleams the mystic Eastern star. 
 
 Once o'er Judah's hill of purple 
 
 Shone the star like living flame ; 
 Through her valleys, green and fertile, 
 Came the echo of J lis name. 
 
 In those years so long agone — 
 
 In religion's blessed dawn. 
 On my head the black curse falleth — 
 " Ever — evermore move on." 
 
 Eighteen hundred years I 'vc wandered, — 
 And my eyes arc dimmed with tears, — 
 Seeking death where storms have thundered, 
 With a heart unknown to fears. 
 
 Years may come and years may go 
 
 In their vast eternal flow. 
 But \\\)w\ my vague, wild wanderings 
 Still my weary feet must ;^o. 
 
 Shivcringly the night wind wailcth 
 
 Sibilant dirges of my doom, 
 And the gold of evening paleth — 
 Fadeth into deeper gloom. 
 
 'Neath the star I kneel and cry, 
 
 " Mercy, mercy, Thou on high I 
 Thou whose huart is filled with pity, 
 List to my despairing cry! " 
 
 Sacramento Union, 1874. 
 
 ^ 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 367 
 
 SLANDER. 
 
 'T WAS but a breath — 
 And yet the fair, good name was wilted; 
 And friends once fond grew cold and otilted, 
 
 And life was worse than death. 
 
 One venomed word, 
 That struck its coward, jioisoned blow, 
 In craven whispers, hushed and low — 
 
 And yet the wide world heard. 
 
 'T was but one whisper — one, 
 That muttered low, for very shame. 
 The thing the slanderer dare not name - 
 
 And yet its work was done. 
 
 A hint so slight, 
 And vet so mighty in its power, 
 A human soul in one short hour 
 
 Lies crushed beneath its blight. 
 
 < •*! 
 
 \\ 
 
 CALUMNY. 
 
 A WHISPER woke the air, 
 
 A soft, light tone and low, 
 Yet barbed with shame and woe. 
 Ah ! might it only perish there, 
 Nor farther go. 
 
 But no, a quick and eager car 
 Caught up the little, meaning sound ; 
 
 Another voice has breathed it clear. 
 And so it wandered round 
 
 From ear to liji, from lip to car, 
 Until it reached a gentle heart 
 That throbbed from all the world apart, 
 And that — it broke. 
 
 THE OUTCAST. 
 
 Ri.F.AK winds of the winter, sobbing and moaning, 
 Pluck not niv rags with your pitiless hand; 
 
 Heic in the darkness, ( old' and despairing, 
 Homeless, and friendless, and starving I stand. 
 
 li' I 
 
 f^ r 
 
368 
 
 THE HUMBI.fR 
 
 linl 
 
 ■; X 
 
 W ; 
 
 Scourged by the '-vhite, icy whips o. he u;j).i. ;ol, 
 
 I wander forlorn on my desolate \s\\-:, 
 Forgotten of earth and forsaken -■: I leaver 
 
 Too frozen to kneel and too hungry M pray, 
 
 I look at the stately and palace-like dwellings 
 
 That line with their grandeur the pathway I tread ; 
 I fancy the brightness and warmth of the hearthstone, 
 
 The plenteous board with the wine and the bread; 
 I see the heads bowed with a reverent meaning, 
 
 A blessing is breathed o'er the sumptuous fare ; 
 Will it rise to the ear of the pitiful Father, 
 
 Or die of the cold, like the vagabond's prayer? 
 
 Hark I Midnight. The chime from the church-tower above me 
 
 Drops solemnly down thrt)ugh the whirl of the storm ; 
 If one could pass through the gate to the portal, 
 
 Could sleep there, and dream it was lighted and warm I 
 ? Jiway, cruel bars ! let me through to a refuge I 
 
 Give away! But I rave, antl the fierce winds reply : 
 " No room in his house for his vagabond children, 
 
 No room in his porch for an outcast to die." 
 
 No room in his dwelling — no room in the churches, 
 
 No room in the prison — for hunger "s w> ciime ; 
 Is there room in the bed of the river, I wrji ()cr, 
 
 Deep down by the pier in the ooze and i' c slime ? 
 Mock on, taunting wind ! I can laugh back an answer, 
 
 An hour, and your bitterest breaih T defy ; 
 Since bars shut me out of (iod's house among mortals, 
 
 I will kno '' at the gate of his honiC in the sky ! 
 
 Mary E. Ritter. 
 
 DESERTED. 
 
 A 
 
 Cot P so cold ' and the night looks down 
 On .t stiivering form in a tattered gown, 
 On a lone, lone heart, and a pair of eyes 
 Abrim with life's keen miseries. 
 
 Kiss on kiss 
 
 V>s the flakes are told, 
 
 Kiss on kiss — 
 
 Hut oh ! so cold. 
 Even the touch that ought to bless 
 Mocketh the wanderer's wretchedness. 
 
 ITow can the loved in the land of light 
 I'eer through thr dismal deeps of night, 
 With never a star to break the gloom, 
 Or sweep one cloud from the path of doom? 
 
 1 
 
TRAGEDY AND SOKKCW. 
 
 369 
 
 Flake on flake 
 
 O'er vale and hill, 
 
 Flake en Hake 
 
 With touch so chill, — 
 With touch that sinks like the shaft of hate 
 Deep in the heart so desolate. 
 
 " Cold ! so cold ! " and the ruddy glare 
 Of lij^hts that glint in the frosty air 
 Reddens each flake that falls upon 
 A hapless, homeless, friendless one ; 
 
 Drop by drop 
 
 Of the hlood-rcd snow, 
 
 Drop by drop 
 
 In the cup of woe — 
 A chalice filled for Want's pale bride, 
 A pauper's feast for a Christmas-tide. 
 
 Joy sails out on the winter's wings, 
 And tuneil for self is the lay she sings; 
 Its echoes drift with tlie icy air, 
 And mock the sufferer's piteous prayer ; 
 
 Wave on wave 
 
 \Viih the night wind strong, 
 
 Wave on wave 
 
 Of the bitter song 
 That floats where the sails of hope are furled, 
 And crowns the wounds of a heartless world. 
 
 '-•> i 
 
 \ . 
 
 
 m 
 
 " Cold I s0 cold ! " Not the cutting blast, 
 Nor the frosty cloak of the night-cloud cast, 
 liut the cramped, uni)itying hearts that beat 
 The rhyme of life in the thronging street. 
 
 Throb on ilirob 
 
 With the chime of pelf, 
 
 Throb on throb 
 
 To tiie song of self, 
 Rut not one pulse to the measure sweet, 
 That times the love at the mercy-seat. 
 
 The night wears on. and the moon sails onl. 
 And the clouds sweep back to the roain < of doubt. 
 And the stars look down for the shivtMing form 
 That braved the thrusts of the cruel storm. 
 
 Fold on fold 
 
 Is the mantle white, 
 
 }"uld on fold 
 
 'Neath the eves of night; 
 The drifts are still on the winter's breath, 
 And the spotless robe is the wing of death. 
 
 [i1 
 
 ♦ m 
 
 
370 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I 
 
 ONLY A WOMAN. 
 
 Oni-Y a woman, shrivelled and old I 
 
 The play of the winds and the prey of the cold ! 
 Checks that are shrunken, 
 Kyes that arc sunken, 
 Lips that were never o'crbnld; 
 
 Only a woman, forsaken and poor, 
 
 Asking an alms at the bronze church-door. 
 
 Hark to the organ ! roll upon roll 
 
 The waves of its music go over the soul ! 
 
 Silks rustle past her 
 
 Thicker and faster ; 
 
 The great bell ceases its toll. 
 Fain would she enter, but not for the poor 
 Swingcth wide open the bronze church-door. 
 
 Only a woman — waiting alone, 
 
 Icily cold on an ice-cold throne. 
 
 What do they care for her? 
 Mumbling a prayer for her. 
 Giving not bread but a stone. 
 
 Under old laces their haughty hearts beat, 
 
 Mocking the woes of their kin in the street ! 
 
 Only a woman I In the old days 
 
 Hope carolled to her, her happiest lays ; 
 
 Somebody missed her. 
 
 Somebody kissed her, 
 
 Somebody crowned her with praise ; 
 Somebi- -y faced up the battles of life, 
 Strongyt;/' /u-r sake who was mother or wife. 
 
 Somebody lies with a tress of her hair 
 
 Light on his heart where the death-shadows are ; 
 
 .Somcl)ody waits for her, 
 
 Opening the gates for her. 
 
 Giving delight for despair. 
 Only ii woman — nevermore poor — 
 Dead in the snow at the bronze church-door ! 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 (As ORIGINALLY WRITTEN, DECUMDER, 1852.) 
 
 Bkautifui. snow ! Beautiful snow I 
 
 Falling so lightly, 
 
 Daily and nightly, 
 Alike round the dwellings of lofty and !jw. 
 
 Horses are prancing, 
 
 Cheerily dancing. 
 Stirred by the spirit that comes fi om the snow. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 371 
 
 Beautiful snow I IJeautifiil snow ! 
 
 Up at the dawning, 
 
 In the cold morning, 
 Children exult, though the winds fiercely blow ; 
 
 Hailing the snowtlakes 
 
 Falling as day breaks — 
 Joyful they welcome the beautiful snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow! Beautiful snow! 
 
 Childhood's quick glances 
 
 See the bright fancies 
 Decking the window-panes softly and slow ; 
 
 Forest and city, 
 
 Figure so pretty, 
 Left by the magical fingers of snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow I Beautiful snow ! 
 
 Atmosphere chilling. 
 
 Carriage-wheels stilling, 
 Warming tlic cold earth, and kindling the glow 
 
 Of Christian pity 
 
 For the great city 
 Of wretched creatures who starve 'mid the snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow I Beautiful snow I 
 
 Fierce winds blowing. 
 
 Thickly 't is snowing ; 
 Night gathers round us — how warm then the glow 
 
 Of the fire so bright, 
 
 On the cold winter night. 
 As we draw in the curtains to shut out the snow. 
 
 Beautiful snow ! Beautiful snow ! 
 
 Round the bright fireside, 
 
 In the long eventide. 
 Closely we gather though keen the winds blow; 
 
 Safely defended, 
 
 Kindly befriended, 
 Pity the homeless exposed to the cold, icy snow. 
 
 Major Sujourney. 
 
 BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 
 
 Oil the snow, the beautiful snow, 
 Filling the sky and the earth below ! 
 Over the house-tops, over the street. 
 Over the heads of the people you n;eet, 
 Dancing, 
 Flirting, 
 
 Skimming along. 
 Beautiful snow I it can do no wrong. 
 
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 372 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek ; 
 Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak. 
 Heauliful snow, from the heavens above, 
 Pure as an angel and fickle as love. 
 
 Oh the snow, the beautiful snow I 
 Mow the flakes gather and laugh as they go ! 
 Whirling about in its maddening fun, 
 It plays in its glee with every one. 
 Chasing, 
 1-aughing, 
 Hurrying by, 
 It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye ; 
 And even the dogs with a bark and a bound 
 Snap at the crystals that eddy around. 
 The town is alive and its heart in a glow. 
 To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 
 
 How the wild crowd goes swaying along. 
 Hailing each other with humor and song ! 
 How the gay sledges like meteors flash bv, — 
 liright for a moment, then lost to the eye ! 
 Ringing, 
 Swinging, 
 
 Dashing, they go 
 Over the crest of the beautiful snow; 
 Snow so pure when it falls from the sky. 
 To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by ; 
 To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet. 
 Till it blends with the horrible filth of the street. 
 
 Once T was pure as the snow, — but. I fell ; 
 Fell, like the snow Hakes, from herven — to hell ; 
 Fell to be tramped as the filth of tlie street ; 
 Fell to be scoffed, to be spic on, and beat. 
 Pleading, 
 Cursing, 
 
 Dreading to die, 
 Selling my soul to whoever would buy. 
 Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, 
 Hating the lining and fearing the dead. 
 Merciful God ' have I fallen so low? 
 And yet I was once like the beautiful snow ! 
 
 Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, 
 With an eve like its crystals, a heart like its glow; 
 Once I was loved for my innocent grace, — 
 Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. 
 Father, 
 Mother, 
 Sisters all, 
 God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 373 
 
 The veriest wretch that goes shivering by 
 
 Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh ; 
 
 For of all that is on or about me, I know. 
 
 There is nothing that 's pure but the beautiful snow. 
 
 How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 
 Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go I 
 How strange it would be, when the night comes again, 
 If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain ! 
 Fainting, 
 Freezing, 
 Dying alone, 
 Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan 
 To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, 
 Cionc mad in its joy at the snow's coming down ; 
 To lie and to die in my terrible woe, 
 \Vith a bed and a shroud of beautiful snow ! 
 
 Helpless and frail as the tramplcd-on snow, 
 Sinner, despair not — Christ stoopeth low 
 To rescue the soul that is lost in its sin, 
 And raise it to life and enjoyment again. 
 Groaning, 
 Bleeding, 
 Dying for thee, 
 The Crucified hung on the accursed tree. 
 His accents of mercy fall soft on my ear ; 
 Is there mercy for me, will he heed my weak prayer .* 
 (.) Cioil, in the stream that for sinners doth flow, 
 Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. 
 
 Ja.mes W. Watson. 
 
 SISTER MADELEINE. 
 
 Thk blessed hush of eventide 
 Over the weary city fell, 
 And softly pealed the vesper-bell 
 
 Across the waters dim and wide, 
 Breathing a sacred spell. 
 
 Across the waters wide and dim. 
 
 And through the dusty, nun ky street. 
 The chimes passed on, wi;ii silver feet 
 
 Chords of the never-silent hymn 
 With which the air doth beat. 
 
 They pulsed across the silent space 
 Which closed the old cathedral in, 
 And rang remotjly through the din 
 
 That still was in the market-place, 
 With echo faint and thin. 
 
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 374 T//E HUMBLE/? POETS. 
 
 One of the bustling, careless throng 
 Listened apart, with low-bowed head ; 
 A toiler, he, for daily bread, — 
 
 What time had such to hceil the song ? 
 Why works he not instead ? 
 
 A far-off look is in his eyes, 
 He secth nothing that is near, 
 He only doth those bell-tones hear, 
 
 Soft ringnic through the purple skies, 
 Distant, but ever dear. 
 
 Oh, happy magic of their chime ! 
 The dreams of youth again enfold 
 That time-worn spirit, growing old 
 
 Too cariy in this alien clime, 
 Wheic hearts as snow are cold. 
 
 But fairest of the treasures sweet 
 My memory brought from their dim place, 
 Shineth the vision of a face 
 
 For angel habitations meet 
 In its transcendent grace. 
 
 He saw her as she used to stand, 
 With parted lips a'ul lifted eyes, 
 Watching the wondrous sunset skies, 
 
 And pointing, with her slender hand, 
 Towards their changeful dyes. 
 
 Ah, what can give the world release 
 From under thraldom of this pain. 
 That life can never know again 
 
 The rapturous joy, the trust and peace 
 Of youth's departed train .'' 
 
 I)Ut not of this he thought tonight : 
 The happy d.iys of long ago 
 Were round him, with unfaded glow; 
 
 The flowers as frc«-ii, the skies as bright, 
 As those he used to know. 
 
 More deej) and dark the shadows grew. 
 The bell's last echoes died away 
 Within the heavens still and gray. 
 
 The peace of night seemed sweet and new 
 After the toilful day. 
 
 But lo ! a sudden, blinding glare 
 Shot upward in the nortliern sky ; 
 And loud and sharj) rang out a cry 
 
 That human seemed in its despair, — 
 The bells of Trinity, 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 Which but a few short hours ago 
 
 Urcathcd their good-night so tenderly 
 Over the (|uict earth and sea, 
 
 And faded witli the sunset glow 
 Peaceful exceedingly. 
 
 lUit now across the night they ring 
 With a wild terror and desjtair 
 That tluiils through all the fearful air, 
 
 Till the wide heavens seem shuddering 
 With the impassioned prayer. 
 
 And human hearts have heard the call : 
 Thousands are thronging uj) the steep 
 Whereon tlie gray old tower doth keep 
 
 Its steadfast vigil over all 
 Within its shade asleep. 
 
 Too late, too late the help had come. 
 The flames were curling everywhere, 
 And, fainting in the scorching air, 
 
 The very bells at last were dumb 
 In uttermost des[)air. 
 
 But in the silence that succeeds 
 The sudden hushing of the bells, 
 One awful human cry upswells. 
 
 And not a listening heart but bleeds 
 For her whose fate it tells. 
 
 " Al.as, 't is .Sister Madeleine ! " 
 The nuns cry out, with faces pale, 
 And then they wring tlu ir hands, and wail ; 
 
 For sweeter sister ne'er was seen 
 Beneath a convent veil. 
 
 But while the thousands held their breath, 
 One listener s[irang with footstep light. 
 Pushing the crowd to left and right, 
 
 Forcing his way to fiery death. 
 While every cheek grew white. 
 
 He vanished through the smokc-vciled door, 
 And higher yet, with fearful glee. 
 The red flames clambered merrily, 
 
 Wrapping the lofty tower o'er 
 With splendor sad to see. 
 
 The abbess knelt, with ashen face — 
 " For those two souls we cry to Thee, 
 Through llim who died upon the tree, 
 
 That Thou wilt grant to them thy grace 
 In their extremity." 
 
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 376 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A thousand voices cried, "Amen," — 
 And as in answer to the prayer 
 Out from the blinding, stifling glare, 
 
 Like life that wakens from the dead, 
 F"orth came the fated pair. 
 
 Scorched, blinded, deafened, on they pressed, — 
 
 The dreamer of the market-place, 
 
 Close holding in a last embrace. 
 Close holding 'gainst a dying breast. 
 
 That dreamed-of angel face. 
 
 ^ Parting and pain for both were done; 
 
 Together- from the stranger's strand 
 Peacefully passed they, hand in hand, 
 
 , Before the rising of the sun, 
 
 Into the " Silent Land." 
 
 Clare Everest. 
 
 LAST AND WORST. 
 
 Upon life's highway I was hastening, when 
 
 I met a trouble grim, 
 Whom I had often seen with other men, 
 
 But I was far from him. 
 
 He seized my arm, and with a sneering lip 
 
 Looked o'er my happy past ; 
 With sinking heart I felt his bony grip 
 
 Clutch tight and hold me fast. 
 
 " Vou look," said he, " so happy and bright. 
 
 That I have come to see 
 Why other troubles miss you in their flight, 
 
 And what you '11 do with me." 
 
 " And hnve you come to stay with me ? " I cried. 
 
 Hoping respite to win. 
 " Yes, I have come to stay. Your world is wide ; 
 
 I 'm crowded where I have been." 
 
 I would not look him in the face, but turned 
 
 To take him home with me 
 To all my other troubles, who had spurned 
 
 His hateful company. 
 
 So he was " crowded," and with me would roam ? 
 
 I laughed with sullen glee ; 
 At .arm's length took him up the steps of home 
 
 Under my own roof-tree. 
 
TRAGEDY AND SORROW. 
 
 And there I clutched his scrawny neck and thin, 
 
 To thrust him in the room 
 Where, locked and barred, I kept my troubles, in 
 
 Seclusion's friendly gloom. 
 
 Grimly he looked at me with eyes that burned: 
 
 " You nothing know of n;e ; 
 The key on other troubles may be turned, 
 
 liut 1 — am Poverty." 
 
 Ah ! soon I knew it was in vain, in vain, 
 
 No locks avail for him ; 
 Nor double doors, nor thickly curtained pane 
 
 Could make his presence dim. 
 
 He wrote his name on all my threadbare ways, 
 
 And in my shrinking air; 
 He told the tale of useless shifts and stays 
 
 I made against despair ; 
 
 He brushed the smile from off my sweet wife's face, 
 
 And left an anxious frown ; 
 The fresh young joys that should my children grace 
 
 His heavy foot trod down ; 
 
 He took my other troubles out, and walked 
 
 With them the public street; 
 Clad in my sacvcd sorrows, cheaply talked 
 
 With all he chanced to meet. 
 
 The hours he stretched upon the rack of days, 
 
 The days to weeks of fears ; 
 The weeks were months, whose weary toilsome ways 
 
 Stretched out through hopeless years. 
 
 To-da^ I stooped to fan with eager strife 
 
 A smgle hope which glowed, 
 And 'mid the fading embers of my life 
 
 A fitful warmth bestowed. 
 
 377. 
 
 Cheered by a spark, I turned with trembling limb 
 
 Once more the strife to wage ; 
 But as I turned I saw my trouble grim 
 
 Linking his arm with Age. 
 
 Old age and poverty, — here end the strife ! 
 
 And ye, remorseless pair. 
 Drape on the last, dim milestone of my life 
 
 Your banner of despair. 
 
 Frances Ekin Allison. 
 

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 378 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A LOST LETTER. 
 
 Just read this letter, old friend of mine ; 
 
 I picked it up upon Margate Pier, 
 In a whirling world of women and wine ; 
 
 'Twas blotted and blurred with a fallen tear. 
 Come, think one minute of years ago. 
 
 When the chance was with us — a sci:l to save, 
 The whim was in us to love, you know. 
 
 But the woman, she fell to a fool or knave. 
 
 " 'T is easy to picture th.; tortured iieart 
 That faced despair and a grief like this." 
 
 She saw her lover unloved depart 
 And turn again to a hateful kiss. 
 
 " Had I been loved by a man like you " — 
 
 weary woman I O fearful fate I 
 
 'T is a passionate cry ; but it strikes me through. 
 Who sigh too soon, but who love too late. 
 
 " WMio was the woman .-* " I seem to trace 
 
 Her footprints here in Vanity Fair : 
 A mother, perchance, with an earnest face ; 
 
 A wife with a glory of Titian hair ; 
 A soul perplexed, and a faith at stake, 
 
 A life nigh lost — there are thousands such 
 Who face the world, when their heart-strings break 
 
 For the one kind word and the tender touch I 
 
 Who was the man ? What matter at all } 
 
 'T is man who ruins and sows the tears ; 
 1' is men who tempt, but women who fall. 
 
 And are never absolved in the deathless years. 
 The least we can do, O brothers, is this ; 
 
 Whilst love is with us, and life seems down, 
 We can soothe the sad with a gentle kiss. 
 
 And dry the eyes that our sins can drown ! 
 
 Go back, lost letter of wild despair, 
 
 1 will cast you forth on the infinite sea ; 
 But the day glides on, and the Margate air 
 
 Is piercing sweet to the world and me. 
 But still I can never forget — can you ? — 
 
 That cry that nothing can soothe or cease ; 
 " Had I been loved by a man like you, 
 
 I had lived far better and died in peace I " 
 
 Clement Scott. 
 
 Note. — Extract from a letter picked up on Margate Pier : " I am so sorry 
 vou are obliged to gc away to-day. You do not know how much I care to 
 be with you. You are so different to other men, — so kind to me. If 1 had 
 known a man like you years ago, I might have been a better woman." 
 
Pier : " I am so sorry 
 how much I care to 
 ind to me. If I had 
 itter woman." 
 
 PART XIV. 
 
 <eberp^tiap Higftt^af and ^ftatioto^^ 
 
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 T/ie tAouQ/if/css 7vor/d to majesty may bow, 
 Exalt the brave, and idolize success ; 
 
 But more to innocence their safety owe 
 
 Than power or genius e'er conspired to bless. 
 
 And thou who, mindful of the unhonored Dead, 
 Dost in these note f their artless tales relate, 
 
 By night and lorn / contemplation led 
 To wander in tie gloomy walks of fate: 
 
 Hark .' how the sacreu calm, that breathes aroiotd. 
 Bids every fierce, tumultuous passion cease ; 
 
 In still small accents whispering from the ground, 
 A grateful earnest of eternal peace. 
 Lines rejected from the "Elegy." 
 
 Gray. 
 
PART XIV. 
 
 €l3etr{i:^tiap iliglit^ anti ^S^iiatiotoie?* 
 
 -«o»- 
 
 NOTHING AT ALL IN THE PAPER TO-DAY. 
 
 Nothing at all in the paper to-day ! 
 
 Only a murder somewhere or other ; 
 A girl who has put her child away, 
 
 Not being a wife as well as a mother ; 
 Or a drunken husband beating a wife, 
 
 With the neighbors lying awake to listen, 
 Scarce aware he has taken a life, 
 
 Till in at the window the dawn rays glisten. 
 But that is all in the regular way — 
 There 's nothing at all in the paper to-day. 
 
 Nothing at all in the paper to-day ! 
 
 To be sure, there 's a woman died of starvation. 
 Fell down in the street, as so many may 
 
 In this very prosperous Christian nation ; 
 Or two young girls, with some inward grief 
 
 Maddened, have plunged in the inky waters ; 
 Or father has learnt that his son 's a thief. 
 
 Or mother been robbed of one of her daughters. 
 Things that occur in their regular way — 
 There 's nothing at all in the paper to-day. 
 
 |i 
 
 There 's nothing at all in the paper to-day, 
 
 Unless you care about things in the city — 
 How great rich rogues for their crimes must pay 
 
 (Though all gentility cries out, " Pity ! ") 
 Like the meanest shop-boy that robs a till. 
 
 There 's a case to-day, if I 'm not forgetting. 
 The lad only " borrowed " — as such lads will — 
 
 To pay some money he lost in betting ; 
 But there 's nothing in this that 's out of the way — 
 There 's nothing at all in the paper to-day. 
 
382 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Nothing at all in the paper to-day 
 
 But the births and bankruptcies, deaths and marriages, 
 But life's events in the old survey, 
 
 With Virtue begging, and Vice in carriages ; 
 And kindly hearts under ermino gowns, 
 
 And wicked breasts under hodden gray ; 
 For goodness belongs not only to clowcs, 
 
 And o'er others than lords does sin bear sway. 
 But what do I read ? " Drowned ! wrecked ! " Did I say 
 There was nothing at all in the paper to-day ? 
 
 CITY CONTRASTS. 
 
 wn 
 
 A BAREFOOTED child on the crossing. 
 
 Sweeping the mud away, 
 A lady in silks and diamonds, 
 
 Proud of the vain display ; 
 A beggar blind on the curbstone, 
 
 A rich man passing along ; 
 A tiny child with a tambourine 
 
 Wailing out her life in song. 
 
 A pauper in lone hearse passing. 
 
 Hurried away to the tomb ; 
 A train of carriages, music grand, 
 
 And the flutter of waving plume. 
 For the one there is never a mourner, 
 
 He cumbered the earth alway ; 
 For the other the flags at half-mast droop. 
 
 And the city wears black to-day. 
 
 A soldier with one sleeve empty, 
 
 That sadly hangs by his si<ie. 
 Another shuffling along the walk 
 
 In the flush of health and pride ; 
 A cripple-girl slowly toiling 
 
 Through the vexed and crowded street. 
 And tearfully gazing at those who pass 
 
 With hearts as light as their feet. 
 
 ,.i:l! 
 
 A wreck of a woman flaunting, 
 
 As if proud of her very shame, 
 A purer sister whose modest cheeks 
 
 Would crimson e'en at the nimc ; 
 A petty thief stealing in terror, 
 
 Afraid in your fac6 to gaze, 
 And one who has robbed by thousands, 
 
 Courting the sun's broad blaze. 
 
 S.W-' 
 
EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 The millionnaire in his carriage, 
 
 The workman plodding along, 
 The humble follower of the right, 
 
 And the slave of the giant wrong ; 
 The murderer seeking a refuge, 
 
 Looking ever wearily hack, 
 And the sleuth-hounds of the broken law 
 
 Following silently in his track. 
 
 The judge, freed now of the ermine. 
 
 Pompous of place and power. 
 And the shivering wretch his word will dec n 
 
 To prison within an hour; 
 The miser clutching his pennies, 
 
 The spendthrift squandering geld, 
 The meek-eyed Sistei of Mercy, 
 
 And the woman brazen and bold. 
 
 383 
 
 f 
 
 
 The widow, in weeds of blackness, 
 
 Meets the bride at the church door — 
 The future for one holds nothing but tears, 
 
 15at joy for the other in store. 
 A cradle jostles a cofifin — 
 
 Orange-flowers, with honeyed breath, 
 Are wove by the self-same fingers 
 
 That but now made a cross for death. 
 
 Dives and Lazarus elbow 
 
 Each other whene'er they meet, 
 And the crumbs from the rich man's table 
 
 Feed the beggar upon the street. 
 And penury crowdeth plenty, 
 
 And sin stalks boldly abroad, 
 And the infidel holds his head proudly 
 
 As the child of the living God. 
 
 The bee in its ceaseless searching 
 
 Finds sweets in each flower fair, 
 And the noisome spider, creeping up. 
 
 Finds nothing but poison there. 
 /. nd so life is made up of contrasts — 
 
 Rich and poor, coward and brave, 
 Virtue and vice, and all will find 
 
 Equality in the grave. 
 
f! !;l 
 
 384 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 THE HUMMING OF THE WIRES. 
 
 Over the telegraph wires 
 
 The wild winds sweep to-day, 
 And I catch a musical humming 
 
 As of harpers at their play, — 
 As of distant bells slow ringing 
 
 At the dying of the day. 
 
 Many the messages shooting 
 
 Along the slender line. 
 And it seems as if every message 
 
 Must have left some voice behind, — 
 Must have set the bells to swinging. 
 
 That I hear in silvery chime. 
 
 Tidings of death are they sending } 
 So hushed the sad refrain ! ' 
 
 Now it quickens, merrily quickens, 
 And it peals a blither strain I 
 
 Of its joy some heart is telling. 
 Ring, b bells, glad bells, again ! 
 
 Here by the track I am asking. 
 These varying sounds so blend. 
 
 Whether God, who wills for his children 
 All events toward good shall tend, 
 
 May not hear our joys and sorrows 
 In like harmony ascer.d. 
 
 Over the marsh by the railroad 
 The wild winds sweep to-d.iy, 
 ^ And they touch the telegraph wires, 
 
 1 And a strange, weird tune they play, 
 
 Till the air is sweet with harpings. 
 And with church-bells far away. 
 
 Boston Jonrual. Edward A. Ranp. 
 
 THE TELEGRAPH CLERK. 
 
 Sitting here by my desk all day. 
 
 Hearing the constant click 
 As the messages speed on their v.\.y, 
 
 And the call comes sharp and quick — 
 Oh, what a varied tale they tell 
 
 Of joy and hope and fear ! 
 The funeral knell and the marriage bell 
 
 In their steady tick I hear. 
 
 A 
 
EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 " Mother is dying ; come at ouce" 
 
 And the tears will almost start, 
 . For tender daughters and loving sons — 
 
 God pity each aching heart ! 
 Ah I how the haunting memories press 
 
 Back to the mind once more, 
 Of the mother's unfailing tenderness, 
 
 That is now forever o'er. 
 
 ** / am zoell ; will come to-itic^Iit." 
 
 How bright some eyes will glow 
 All day long with a ha])py light 
 
 As they watch the moments go. 
 " I/ave had no lette7-s ; is something wrong? " 
 
 Some heart is sad to-day, 
 Counting the hours that .seem so long 
 
 For the sake of one away. 
 
 *' Arthur Ross, by accident killed ; 
 
 Tell his mother, am coming home." 
 Alas for the home with such sorrow filled, 
 
 When the bitter tidings come I 
 '■'•Alice is better; gaining fast." 
 
 And hearts that have been bowed 
 Under their weight of fear, at last 
 
 Shall lose their weary load. 
 
 So over the wires the tidings spee'l, 
 
 Bitter and grave and gay ; 
 Some hearts shall beat, and some shall bleed, 
 
 For the tale they have to say. 
 As I sit all day by my desk alone 
 
 I hear the stream go by, 
 And catch the wires' changeful tone, 
 
 With a smile and then a sigh. 
 
 385 
 
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 WARD A. Rand. 
 
 GOING HOME IN THE MORNING. 
 
 A POOR little bird trilled a song in the west, — 
 
 A poor little bird with a stain on its breast. 
 
 Beaten down by the rain and too weak for flight. 
 
 It fell in the city unseen in the night. 
 
 As it trilled its sad song, other birds of the air. 
 
 The respectable ones, wondered who could be there. 
 
 Out in the darkness, while passing, I heard 
 
 The wail of the poor little vagabond bird. 
 
 Being homeless myself, I hunted and found 
 
 The weak little vagrant stretched out on the ground. 
 
 I raised it, and gave it of all I possessed, 
 
 A warm cosey shelter close up to my breast ; 
 
 25 
 
) i. 
 
 386 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And I whispered : " Don't worry, rather whistle and sing, 
 V'ou poor little innocent vagabond thing. 
 Very soon now the storm will have passed from the sky, 
 Very soon, too, the sun will be shining on high, 
 And you shall go home in the morning." 
 
 A broken-down man then was walking the street ; 
 As I passed him I stayed for a moment my feet. 
 Cried the man : " It is hard ! So many have health 
 And beauty and youth and jilcasure and wealth, 
 Whilst we are unnoticed by God or by man. 
 Accursed and degraded, and under the ban 1 " 
 " My brother," said I, " I am seeking, like you. 
 For a something to cat, for a something to do; 
 Let us keep on our way, let us keep it together. 
 Through the cold and the mire and the pitiless weather, 
 Hoping still for the best ; soon the night will be gone, 
 And after the night always cometh the dawn. 
 And we can go home in the morning." 
 
 -; 
 
 We paused as we passed an old rickety shed ; 
 We glanced well within — then we glanced overhead ; 
 The sky with the darkness was all overcast. 
 The snowflakes whirled down and clung to us fast ; 
 How I fondled my bird — it had no one to love it. 
 Said the man : " This is bad — grows worse and more of it ; " 
 But we entered the shed, and out under the lamp 
 Slowly drifted anigh us the form of a tramp. 
 To be out in the storm-blast ! Ah, me I 't was a sin ! 
 So I stepped from the shelter, invited her in. 
 And took the poor babe, without wasting of words. 
 And then, you 'II perceive, I had two little birds ! 
 And we all stood there hungry, haggard, and wan, 
 Awaiting in silence the coming of dawn, 
 So we could go home in the morning. 
 
 An hour ere dawn, being cold and a-shiver, 
 
 We moved all together a-down to the river. 
 
 Thus passing, the poor little bird from the west 
 
 Trilled a poor little song. It was doing its best 
 
 To help us along, and it tried hard to sing ; 
 
 liut being a famished and pitiful thing, 
 
 It skipped now and then a few bars, and a note 
 
 Died out now and then in its weak little throat. 
 
 The babe on my arm lay and listened awhile, 
 
 Then looked in my face with a wondering smile, 
 
 As out through my vest, that was ragged and torn. 
 
 Peeped the poor little bird, who thought it was morn. 
 
 And twittered, and looked at the child and its mother ; 
 
 And the child and the bird grieved the one for the other, 
 
 ■ I , \\ 
 
£ VERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 387 
 
 And thought it was strange in a city of priests 
 Two such innocent things should be out on the streets. 
 Well, we passed on our way — a vagabond crew, 
 Yet I think in our hearcs e .ery one of us knew 
 That we should go home in the morn'ng. 
 
 We came to the ferry-house, stately and tall, 
 And crowded for warmth in the shade of the wall. 
 Then I saw, 'mid the dirt aru the filth at my teet, 
 A crust of nice bread lying out on the street ; 
 I grasped it and gave to the woman; she smiled 
 And Kaid, '* It don't matter now, me and tie child, 
 We are going home in the morning." 
 
 It was very near daybreak, I noticed at last 
 A streak like the dawn afar off in the east. 
 Then we moved all together — ihcy loosened the bar — 
 Wc passed through the gates that were standing ajar; 
 Moved down the incline where, toward us afloat, 
 From over the river was drifting the boat. 
 We had nothing to pay — no passage — no faros — 
 For the houseless and homeless there 's nobodj cares ; 
 With the bird and the child and the vagabond crew 
 I sailed from the shore, and I verv well knew 
 Where we all should rejoice In the morning. 
 
 Wayne Douglas. 
 
 DEAD IN HIS BED. 
 
 Only a man dead in his bed — that is all ! 
 Stark, stiff, and rigid — white face to the wall. 
 
 Come out of yesterday somewhere, to here — 
 
 Well, no : don't think he had friends anywheres near. 
 
 Wanted employment — that 's what he said ; 
 No work to give him — next thing, he's dead. 
 
 What did he die of, sir ? Can any one tell ? 
 
 A fit, did they think it was? Last night he was well. 
 
 Heart-disease ? May be. What was his name } 
 Don't know ; did n't register, sir, when he came. 
 
 Laud'num, they say it was, there on the stand — 
 No, stranger ; don't reckon he held a fair hand. 
 
 Suicide ? Yes, that 's what the coroner said — 
 Scooped out, was what put the thing into his head. 
 
 
3^8 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 !> I 
 
 Money ? Guess not, sir. Wh}', he had n't enough 
 To pay for this hole in the sod, of the stuff. 
 
 Friends, did you ask? Oh, yes ! Sometime or other — 
 Reckon, of course, the boy once had a mother. 
 
 Rather rough on him, pard ; but where 's it to end. 
 
 When you 're panned out of cash and can't count on a friend ? 
 
 Down to the calaboose — that's where they took him; 
 Good enough place, when a man's money 's forsook him I 
 
 Funeral ? Just you see that express at the coroner's ! 
 County can't pay for no hearse, nor no mourners. 
 
 Well, stranger, you 've got me I Can pray if you will — 
 Rather late in the day, when a man 's dead and still. 
 
 Strikes me, it don't count, to this, under my spade ; 
 And as for the rest of him — stranger, that 's played. 
 
 No offence, sir; beg pardon, but strikes me as fair, 
 And a pretty sure way to get answer to prayer, 
 
 Better give a poor devil a lift while he 's here. 
 Than wait till he 's passed in his checks over there I 
 
 A. L. Ballou. 
 
 . GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY? 
 
 She stood at the bar of justice, 
 
 A creature wan and wild. 
 In form too small for a woman, 
 
 In feature too old for a child. 
 For a look so worn and pathetic 
 
 Was stamped on her pale young face, 
 It seemed long vears of suffering 
 
 Must have left that silent trace. 
 
 I ;■ 
 
 rm I 
 
 " Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her 
 
 With kindly look, yet keen, 
 " Is — ? " " Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." 
 
 " And your age ? " "I am turned fifteen." 
 " Well, Mary — " And then from a paper 
 
 He slowly and gravely read, 
 " You are charged here — I am sorry to say it — 
 
 With stealing three loaves of bread. 
 
ugh 
 
 r other — 
 
 end, 
 
 at on a friend ? 
 
 ok him ; 
 rsook him 1 
 
 roner's ! 
 ers. 
 
 you will — 
 d still. 
 
 pade ; 
 played. 
 
 IS fair, 
 :r. 
 
 there 1 
 
 A. L. Ballou. 
 
 ? ^ 
 
 face, 
 
 eyed her 
 
 5lease, sir." 
 (■fifteen." 
 ] a paper 
 
 ry to say it • 
 lad. 
 
 £FEJ?Y~DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 " You look not like an offender, 
 
 And I hope that you can show 
 The charge to be false. Now, tell me, 
 
 Are you guilty of this, or no ? " 
 A passionate burst of weeping 
 
 Was at first her sole reply ; 
 But she dried her tears in a moment. 
 
 And looked in the judge's eye, 
 
 " I will tell you just how it was, sir; 
 
 My father and mother are dead, 
 And my little brothers and sisters 
 
 Were hungry, and asked me for bread. 
 At first I earned it for them 
 
 By working hard all day. 
 But somehow tlie times were hard, sir. 
 
 And the work all fell away. 
 
 " J could get no more employment ; 
 
 The weather was bitter cold ; 
 The young ones cried and shivered 
 
 (Little Johnnie 's but four years old). 
 So what was I to do, sir ? 
 
 I am guilty, but do not condemn ; 
 I too^ — oh, was it stealhis^? — 
 
 Tha bread to give to them." 
 
 Every man in the court-room — 
 
 Graybeard and thoughtless youth — 
 Knew, as he looked upon her. 
 
 That the prisoner spake the truth. 
 Out from their pockets came kerchiefs. 
 
 Out from their eyes sprung tears, 
 And out from old faded wallets 
 
 Treasures hoarded for )cars. 
 
 The judge's face was a study, 
 
 The strangest you ever saw. 
 As he cleared his throat and murmured 
 
 Somet/iing abowt the law. 
 For one so learned in such matters, 
 
 So wise in dealing with men, 
 He seemed on a simple question • 
 
 Sorely puzzled just then. 
 
 But no one blamed him, or wondered, 
 
 When at last these words they heard, 
 " The sentence of this young prisoner 
 
 Is for the present deferred." 
 And no one blamed him, or wondered, 
 
 When he went to her and smiled, 
 And tenderly led from the court-room. 
 
 Himself, the " guilty " child. 
 
 389 
 
 
 i 
 
 
 
 
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 E*- 
 
 
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 W 
 
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 5 
 
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 £11. 
 
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 tl 
 
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 I 
 
 390 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 SCANDAL-MONGERS. 
 
 Do you hear the scandal-mongers 
 
 Passing by, 
 Breathing poison in a whisper, 
 
 In a .sigh ? 
 Moving cautiously and slow, 
 Smiling sweetly as they go. 
 Never noisy — gliding smoothly as a snake, 
 
 Supping here and sliding there 
 
 Through the meadows fresh nd fair, 
 Leaving subtle slime and poison in their wake. 
 
 Saw you not the scandal-monger 
 
 As she sat , 
 
 Beaming brightly 'neath the roses 
 
 On her hat ? 
 In her dainty gloves and dress 
 Angel-like, and nothing less. 
 Seemed she — casting smiles and pleasing words about. 
 
 Once she shrugged and shook her head, 
 
 Raised her eyes and nothing said, 
 When you spoke of friends, and yet it left a doubt. 
 
 Did you watch the scandal-monger 
 
 At the ball } 
 Through the music, rhythm, beauty, 
 
 Light, and all. 
 Moving here and moving there, 'k 
 
 With a whisper light as air, 
 Casting shadows on a sister woman's fame — 
 
 Just a whispered word or glance — 
 
 As she floated through the dance, 
 And a doubt forever hangs upon a name. 
 
 You will find the scandal-mongers 
 
 Everywhere; 
 Sometimes men, but often women, 
 
 Young and fair ; 
 Yet their tongues drij) foulest slime, 
 And they spend their leisure time 
 Casting mud on those who climb by work and worth I 
 
 Shun them, shun them as you go — 
 
 Shun them, whether high or low ; 
 They are but the cursed serpents of the earth. 
 
EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 391 
 
 THE CHURNING SONG. 
 
 Apron on and dash in hand, 
 O'er the old churn here I stand, — 
 
 Cachug ! 
 How the thick cream spurts and flies, 
 Now on shoes and now in eyes 1 — 
 
 Cachug ! Cachug I 
 
 Ah! how soon I tired get ! 
 But the butter lingers yet ; 
 
 Cachug ! 
 Aching back and weary arm 
 Quite rob churning of its charm ! — 
 
 Cachug I Cachug I 
 
 See the golden specks appear ! 
 
 And the churn rings sharp and clear, - 
 
 Cachink! 
 Arms, that have to flag begun. 
 Work on, you will soon be douv?, — 
 
 Cachink ! Cachink I 
 
 Rich flakes cling to lid and dash ; 
 Hear the thin milk's watery splash ! — 
 
 CalinkI 
 Sweetest music to the ear. 
 For it says the butter 's here ! — 
 
 Calink! Calink ! 
 
 'iir 
 
 St. Nicholas. 
 
 Silas Dinsmore. 
 
 TURNED OUT FOR RENT. 
 
 Out, out in the night, in the chill wintry air. 
 Turned out on the pave with its stones cold and bare ; 
 Shut out from her home with its sad dearth of bread, 
 Alone with her God and the stars overhead ! 
 Cast out with her babe still asleep on her breast, 
 Asleep to the sorrow that mars not his rest ; 
 Asleep to the new pearls uedecking his hair, 
 Bright gems from the sea of his mother's despair. 
 Out, out like her Lord, " with no place for her head," 
 All friendless, and houseless, and starving for bread; 
 Thus brought face to face with her life's direst woe. 
 And yet 't is unfelt 'ncath a bitterer blow ; 
 For this is the wail, voiceless, deep in her heart, 
 "Cast out like a thief, put to sham", set apart 1 " 
 But what hath she done, with her wild startled eyes. 
 And what with her tremulous, short, gasping sighs t 
 
392 
 
 FT 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Ah, what, with her weary and faltering feet, 
 
 Now dragging like lead through the fast darkening street ? 
 
 What ! Is one so weak found a dangerous thing, 
 
 Concealing 'mid softness a treacherous sting, 
 
 That ye to expel her have borrowed a need 
 
 Of two brawny knights of the star and the reed ; 
 
 This, this is her crime — O ye winds, whisper low ! 
 
 Nor give to the echoes her sad talc of woe, 
 
 Lest they tell the hills, and the beasts cry, " For shame ! " 
 
 — Gaunt poverty fills all her measure of blame. 
 
 M. L. S. 13URKE. 
 
 AT THE COURT-HOUSE DOOR. 
 
 1; '^'k .i 
 
 Nol no I I don't defend him — 
 
 You need n't, sir, be afraid I 
 Of course he 's bad, and he 's broke the laws, 
 
 And they 've got to be obeyed ; 
 But I can't help kind of thinking — 
 
 I beg your pardon, squire ! — 
 If we had had a start like him 
 
 We might n't got much higher. 
 
 " So poor ? " 'T wan't that ! — 't want that, sir I 
 
 A home may be awful bare. 
 And keep some kind of quiet 
 
 And show of comfort there ; 
 But when it's all dirt and disorder — 
 
 I never saw such a place I — 
 And you see folks said 't would always be, 
 
 Because it was in the race ; 
 
 SS^'f 
 
 And it had been so — that 's true, sir ; 
 
 His father was very bad ; 
 And the poor boy looked some like him — 
 
 And 'twas all against the lad ; 
 Folks would n't allow that anything good 
 
 Coakl come of such a stock — 
 Kind folks they were, too, in everything else, 
 
 But here as set as a rock. 
 They wouldn't employ him to labor — 
 
 Tney did n't want him around ; 
 There were plenty of nice young fellows, 
 
 That needed work, to be found. 
 
 And his mother — she was a drunkard ; 
 
 And that was against him, tool 
 And so, no home, no comfort, 
 
 And nothing to get to do. 
 
EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 Oh, well ! folks always expected — 
 
 His poor old father, you see — 
 'T is curious how their figures 
 
 And the way he went agree ! 
 But I 've thought a good deal about it, 
 
 And I 've kind of made it out, 
 That the way to bring up a fellow 
 
 Is n't just to kick him about ! 
 
 I don't think much of talking, 
 
 And I have n't much to say ; 
 But the better you use a creature, 
 
 The more you will get to pay. 
 And we who have had our chances, 
 
 And friends to give us a lift, 
 Won't be too hard on this one, 
 
 That the town has set adrift ; 
 For if the neighbors had took to him. 
 
 And tried to help him along, 
 You see — it may be, brother. 
 
 He had n't gone quite so wrong I 
 
 393 
 
 TRUST. 
 
 Searching for strawberries ready to eat, 
 Finding them crimson, and large, and sweet, 
 What do you think I found at my feet, 
 
 Deep in the green hillside ? 
 Four brown sparrows, the cunning things 
 Feathered on back and breast and wings, 
 Proud with the dignity plumage brings. 
 
 Opening their four mouths wide. 
 
 Stooping low to scan my prize. 
 Watching the motions with curious eyes, 
 Dropping my berries in glad surprise, 
 
 A plaintive sound I heard. 
 And looking up at the mournful call, 
 I spied on a beech near the old stone wall, 
 Trembling and twittering, ready to fall, 
 
 The poor little mother-bird. 
 
 With grief and terror her heart was wrung. 
 And while to the slender bough .she clung, 
 She felt that the lives of her birdlings hung 
 
 On a still more slender thread. 
 " Ah, birdie ! " I said, " if you only knew 
 My heart was tender and warm and true ! " 
 But the thought that I loved the birdlings too 
 
 Never entered her small brown head. 
 
 X\x 
 
fiii liiii 
 
 394 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And so through this world of ours we go, 
 Bearing our burdens oi needless woe ; 
 Many a heart beating heavy ard slow 
 
 Under its load of care. 
 But oh, if we only, only know 
 That God was tender, warm, and true, 
 And that he loved us through and through, 
 
 Our hearts would be lighter than air. 
 
 WABASH VIOLETS. 
 
 What ? Sho' I You don't ! Do you mean it, though } 
 
 Are you really goin' with me 
 To meetin' in all that bandbox rig ? 
 
 I 'm so awkward, don't you see ? 
 A reg'lar Hoosier. Yes, I know • 
 
 We 're cousins, as you say ; 
 But I grovved wild on the Wabash here, 
 
 And you like a sweet nosegay 
 
 Sprung sprightly-like to life in the air 
 
 Miles away, in Boston town. 
 Why, 'twould be like a schoolma'ani, college bred, 
 
 A-walking with a clown. 
 No, I don't guess that 's just what I 'd say ; 
 
 Biit — what } what 's that } As we stroll 
 We '). gather ,'5ome violets by the way. 
 
 To put in my buttonhole ? 
 
 Do you know, I don't exactly see 
 
 What you find in them little things "\ 
 
 To make you go as crazy as though \ 
 
 They was like an angel's wings } 
 If they was bright and handsome, now, 
 
 Like a poppy or a marigold, 
 I 'd work like a man, and gather for you 
 
 All that your arms could hold. 
 
 It 's culture that makes one like such flowers } 
 
 Yes, I reckon that 's ^bout so ; 
 But that 's a yarb that grows more peart 
 
 In Boston than hero, you know. 
 But some here, too, thinks a right smart chance 
 
 Of violets, cousin Kate — 
 Like schoolma'ams, you know, and notional gals, 
 
 As takes their poetry straight. 
 
 Don't know but I might have liked 'em too, 
 
 But for memories of a thing 
 That happened a dozen years ago^ 
 
 In the days of early spring. 
 
 \ i 
 
tnean it, though i 
 
 EVILRY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 395 
 
 It seems like a dream. Jim Brown and I 
 
 We used to spend whole hours, 
 When we could n't find anything else to do, 
 
 A-battlin' with them flowers. 
 
 We called them "roosters." Don't you see 
 
 How their necks lap over, so > 
 And then, when we pull, the strongest one 
 
 Jerks the other's head off. Oh, 
 The fun we had ! We 'd gather piles, 
 
 And hunt for the largest ones. 
 And then sit down on a rotten log 
 
 And fight like bloody Huns. 
 
 The violets' heads would drop in a pile, 
 
 Till I sometimes think a peck 
 Or more would be scraped up side of the log, 
 
 Where the war was neck and neck. 
 A joke ? Well, I reckon. . . . But that 's why 
 
 I can't give myself away 
 O'er the little posies, just as though 
 
 They was pinies or poppies gav. 
 
 Well, yes, I reckon there 's a lesson here, 
 
 If you 're bound to look for one ; 
 There 's many a page of poetry sp'iled 
 
 From a-draggin' it down to fun. 
 If the fountain-head of youth is foul, 
 
 Its stream through life will be riled ; 
 Because these flowers were " roosters " then, 
 
 My love for them now is sp'iled. 
 
 Earl Marble. 
 
 n 1 
 
 t:" 
 
 THE WATER-MILL. 
 
 Listen to the water-mill 
 
 Through the livelong day ; 
 How the clanking of the wheels 
 
 Wears the hours away! 
 Languidly the autumn wind 
 
 Stirs the greenwood leaves ; 
 From the fields the reapers sing, 
 
 Binding up the sheaves ; 
 And a proverb haunts my mind, 
 
 As a spell is cast : 
 "The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 Take the lesson to thyself, 
 
 Living heai t and true ; 
 Golden years are floating by, 
 
 Youth is passing too ; 
 
396 
 
 \ 1 
 
 THE HUMBLE/^ POETS. 
 
 Learn to make the most of life, 
 
 Lose no happy day; 
 Time will never bring thee back 
 
 Chances swept away. 
 Leave no tender worcl unsaid ; 
 
 Love while life shall last, — 
 "The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water th.ii has passed." 
 
 Work while yet the daylight shines, 
 
 Man of strength and will ; 
 Never does the streaml'.t glide 
 
 Useless by the mill. 
 Wait not till to-morrow's sun 
 
 Beams upon the way ; 
 All that thou canst call thine own 
 
 Lies in thy to-day. 
 Power, intellect, and health 
 
 May not, cannot hisf ; 
 "The mill will never grind 
 
 With the \vater that has j:assed. " 
 
 ( ( 
 
 Oh, the wasted hours of life 
 \ That have drifted by ; 
 
 Oh, the good we might have done, 
 
 Lost without a sigh ; 
 Love that we might once have saved 
 
 By a single word ; 
 Thoughts conceived, but never penned. 
 
 Perishing unheard. 
 Take the proverb to thine heart, 
 
 Take I oh, hold it fast I — 
 " The mill will never grind 
 
 With the water that has passed." 
 
 Sarah Doudney Clarke. 
 
 Note. — The authorship of this poem has been credited with singular 
 persistency to Gen. Daniel C. Mc(.'allum, but without justification. 
 
 n 
 
 STONE THE WOMAN. LET THE MAN 
 GO FREE. 
 
 Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free ! 
 
 Draw back your skirts, lest they perchance may touch 
 
 Her garment as she passes ; but to him 
 
 Put forth a willing hand to clasp with his 
 
 That led her to destruction and disgrace. 
 
 Shut up from her the sacred ways of toil, 
 
 That she no more may win an honest meal ; 
 
 But ope to him all honorable paths 
 
 U*i 
 
 si 
 
 
E VERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 Where he may win distinction ; give to him 
 
 Fair, pressed-down nneasures of life's sweetest joys. 
 
 Pass her, O maiden, with a pure, proud face, 
 
 If she puts out a poor, polluted palm ; 
 
 But lay thy hand m his on bridal day, 
 
 And swear to cling to him with wifely love 
 
 And tender reverence. Trust him who led 
 
 A sister woman to a fearful fate. 
 
 Yes, stone the woman, let the man go free ! 
 Let one soul suffer for the guilt of two — 
 It is the doctrine of a hurried woild. 
 Too out of breath for holding balances 
 Where nice distinctions and injustices 
 Are calmly weighed. But ah, now will it be 
 On that strange day of final fire and flame, 
 When men shall wither with a mystic fear. 
 And all shall stand before the one true Judge ? 
 Shall sex make then a difference in sin .'' 
 Shall he, the searcher of the hidden heart, 
 In his eternal and divine decree 
 Condemn the woman and forgive the man ? 
 
 397 
 
 >!l1-iJ- 
 
 THE BAR-TENDER'S STORY. 
 
 NEY Clarke. 
 
 When I knowed him at first there was iuthin', 
 
 A sort of a general air, 
 That was wery particular pleasin'. 
 
 And what you might call — debonair. 
 I 'm aware that expression is Frenchy, 
 
 And highfalutin, perhaps. 
 Which accounts that I have the acquaintance 
 
 Of several quality chaps, 
 
 And such is the way they converses. 
 
 But, speakin' of this here young man, — 
 Apparently natur' had shaped him 
 
 On a sort of a liberal plan ; 
 Had give him good looks and good language. 
 
 And manners expressin' with vim 
 His belief in hisself, and that others 
 
 Was just as good fellers as him. 
 
 Well, this chap was n't stuck up, by no means, 
 
 Nor inclined to be easy put down ; 
 And was thought to be jolly agreeable 
 
 Wherever he went around town. 
 He used to come in for his beverage 
 
 Quite regular every night ; 
 And I took a consid'able interest 
 
 In mixing the thing about right. 
 
 « 
 
rij' 
 
 ■Jliiii 
 
 398 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A judicious indulgence in licjuids 
 
 It is nat'ral for me to admire ; 
 But I *ni free to admit that for some folks 
 
 They is pison complete and entire ; 
 For rum, though a cheerful companion, 
 
 As a boss is the Devil's own chum ; 
 And this chap, I am sorry to state it, 
 
 Was floored in a wrastle with rum. 
 
 For he got to increasin' his doses, 
 
 And took 'em more often, he did, — 
 And it growed on him faster and faster, 
 
 Till inter a bummer he slid. 
 I was grieved to observe this here feller 
 
 A shovin' hisseif down the grade, 
 And I lectured him onto it sometimes, 
 
 At the risk of its injurin' trade. 
 
 At last he got thunderin' seedy, 1 
 
 And lost his respect for hisseif, 
 And all his high notions of honor 
 
 Was bundled away on the shelf. 
 But at times he was dreadful remorseful. 
 
 Whenever he 'd stop for to think. 
 And he 'd swear to reform hisseif frequent, 
 
 And end it by takin' a drink. 
 
 What saved that young feller ? A woman ! 
 
 She done it the singlcrest way, — 
 He come into the bar-room one evenin' 
 
 (He had n't been drinkin' that day). 
 And sot hisseif down to a table. 
 
 With a terrible sorrowful face. 
 And he sot there a groanin' repeated. 
 
 And callin' hisseif a gone case. 
 
 He was thlnkin', and thinkin', and thinkin', 
 
 And cussin' hisseif and his fate, 
 And ended his thinkin', as usual, 
 
 By orderin' a Bourbon straight. 
 He was holdin' the glass in his fingers, 
 
 When into the place, from the street. 
 There come a young gal like a spirit. 
 
 With a face that was wonderful sweet ; 
 
 And she glided right up to the table, 
 
 And took the glass gently away, 
 And she says to him, " George, it is over ; 
 
 I am only a woman to-day I 
 I rejected you once in my anger, 
 
 But I come to you, lowly and meek ; 
 For I can't live without you, my darling ; 
 
 I thought I was strong, but 1 'm weak. 
 
 ■■ \ i ' \ 
 
EVERY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 
 
 " You are bound in a terrible bondage, 
 
 And 1 come, love, to share it with you ; 
 Is there shame in the deed ? I can bear it, 
 
 For, at last, to my love I am true ; 
 I have turned from the home of my childhood, 
 
 And I come to you, lover and friend, 
 Leaving comfort, contentment, and honor; 
 
 And I '11 stay till the terrible end. 
 
 " Is there hunger and want in the future ? 
 
 I will share them with you, and not shrink ! 
 And together we '11 join in the pleasures. 
 
 The woes, and the dangers of drink I " 
 Then she raised up the glass, firm and steady, 
 
 I?ut her face was as pale as the dead, — 
 " Here 's to wine, and the joys of carousals. 
 
 The songs and the laughter," she said. 
 
 Then he riz up, his face like a tempest, 
 
 And took the glass out of her hand, 
 And slung it away, stern and savage, — 
 
 And, I tell you, his manner was grand ! 
 And he says, " I have done with it, Nellie, 
 
 And I 'II turn from the ways I have trod, 
 And I Ml live to be worthy of you, dear, 
 
 So help me, a merciful God 1 " 
 
 What more was remarked, it is needless 
 
 For me to attempt to relate ; 
 It was some time ago since it happened. 
 
 But the sequel is easy to state : 
 I seen that same feller last Monday, 
 
 Lookin' nobby and han'some and game ; 
 He was wheeling a vehicle, gen'lemen. 
 
 And a baby was into the same. 
 
 399 
 
 Iv 
 
 
 DUTY'S REWARD. 
 
 It was an English summer day. 
 
 Some six or seven years ago. 
 That a pointsman before his cabin paced. 
 
 With a listless step, and slow. 
 He lit his pipe — there was plenty of time — 
 
 In his work there was nothing new ; 
 Just to watch the signals and shift the points 
 
 Whi.'n the next train came in view. 
 
 He 1 jant 'gainst his cabin and smoked away, 
 
 Ke was used to lounge and wait ; 
 Twelve hours at a stretch he must mind those points, 
 
 And down-trains were mostly late I 
 
 ! 
 
400 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A rumble, a roar, — " She 's coming now — 
 
 She 's truer to time to-day I " 
 He turns, and not far between the rails 
 
 Sees his youngest boy at play. 
 
 Not far, but too far ! The train is at hand, 
 
 And the child is crawling there, 
 And patting the ground with crows of delight — 
 
 And not a moment to spare ! 
 His face was dead white, but his purpose firm, 
 
 As straight to his post he trod, 
 And shifted the points and saved the down-train, 
 
 And trusted his child to God. 
 
 There 's a rush in his ears, though the train has passed ; 
 
 He grcpes, for he cannot see, 
 To the place where the laughing baby crawled, 
 
 Where the mangled limbs must be. 
 But he hears a cry that is only of fear, 
 
 His joy seems too great to ijear ; 
 For his duty done, God saw to his son — 
 
 The train had not touched a hair. 
 
 'I El 
 
 ■ ■• ! 
 
 GENTLEMAN JIM. 
 
 In the Diamond Shaft worked Gentleman Jim, 
 
 Handsome of face and stout of limb, 
 
 Coarse in dress ; but something in him, 
 
 Whether down in the coal mine, soiled and grim. 
 
 Or wandering alone in holiday time, 
 
 Won the love and respect of all in that clime. 
 
 He had no sweetheart, he had no wife. 
 Some mighty sorrow had dimmed his life — 
 His earnings hardly won, and small, 
 Were aye at the orphans' and widows' call — 
 Of those who had perished in shaft or winze. 
 He was the friend of all living things. 
 And moving along in those toilsome ways, 
 He wore the demeanor of gentler days. ' 
 
 In April last, when the mine fell in. 
 Beneath the timbers stood Gentleman Jim ; 
 With a giant grasp he flung two of the boys 
 Clear of the danger — with deafening noise 
 The shaft gave way on every side ; 
 The boys were safe, but Jim — he died ; 
 Died as men die, and will die again, 
 Giving their lives for their fellow-men. 
 
 ill 
 
EVEKY-DAY LIGHTS AND SHADOWS. 401 
 
 When rocks and timbers were cleared away, 
 And Jim borne up to the light of day, 
 They took from his bosom, stained with blood, 
 Two withered leaves and a withered hv \ 
 Pinned on a card. '• Toute in toi — Marie," 
 Was written beneath theni ; beneath it he, 
 On this relic his heart for years had worn, 
 Had written, " All withered — except the thorn." 
 
 What life romance, what story of wrong, 
 This man had locked up in his soul so long, 
 None who loved him may ever know ; 
 But the tale of his glorious chivalric deed 
 Shall not perish as long as men hold this creed, — 
 That the hero whose blood for his kind is shed 
 Wins a deathless fame and an honored bed ; 
 A monument grander than sculptor ere gave, 
 In the glory that hallows the martyr's grave. 
 
 San Francisco Mail. Daniel O'CoNN ELL. 
 
 FATHER JOHN. 
 
 He preached but little ; argued less ; 
 But if a girl was in distress, 
 Or if a kinchen came to grief, 
 Or trouble tackled rogue or thief. 
 There Father John was sure to be. 
 To blunt the edge of misery; 
 And somehow managed every time 
 To ease despair or lessen crime. 
 
 That corner house was alius known 
 Around these parts as Podger's Own, 
 Till two pals in a drunken light 
 Set the whole thing afire one night; 
 And wliCre it stood they hypered round, 
 And blasted rocks and shovelled ground 
 To build the factory over there — 
 The one you see ; and that is where 
 Poor Father John — God give him rest ! ■ 
 Preached his last sermon and his best. 
 
 il 
 
 One summer's day the thing was done ; 
 The workmen set a blast and run ; 
 They ain't so keerful here, I guess. 
 Where lives ain't worth a cent apiece, 
 As in the wards where things are dear. 
 And nothink ain't so cheap as here ; 
 Leastwise, the first they seed or knowed, 
 A little chick had crossed the road ; 
 26 
 
(J 
 
 403 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 lie seemed to be just out of bed — 
 Bare-legged, with nothink on his head ; 
 Chubby and cunnin', with his hair 
 Blown criss-cross by the mornin' air ; 
 Draggin' a tin horse by a string, 
 Without much care for anything ; 
 A talkin' to hisseif for joy, — 
 A toddlin', kccrlcss, baby boy. 
 
 Right for the crawlin' fuse he went. 
 As though to find out what it meant ; 
 Trudgin' toward the fatal spot 
 Till less 'n three feet off he got 
 From where the murderin' thing lay still, 
 Just waitin' for to spring and kill — 
 Marching along toward his grave, 
 And not a soul dared go to save ! 
 
 They hollered — all they durst to do; 
 He turned and laughed, and then bent low 
 To set the horsey on his feet. 
 And went right on a crowin' sweet 1 
 And then a death-like silence grew 
 On all the treniblin', coward crew, 
 As each swift second seemed the last 
 Before the roariiig of the blast. 
 
 Just then some chance or purpose brought 
 The priest. He saw, and quick as thought 
 He ran and caught the child and turned 
 Just as the slumberin' powder burned. 
 And shot the shattered rocks around. 
 And with its thunder shook the ground. 
 
 "^ The child was sheltered I Father John 
 
 Was hurt to death. Without a groan, 
 He set the baby down, then went 
 A step or two ; but life was spent. 
 He tottered, looked up to the skies 
 With ashen face, but strange, glad eyes. 
 " My love, I come 1 " was all he said. 
 Sank slowly down, and so was dead I 
 
 Stranger, he left a memory here 
 That will be felt for many a year : 
 And since that day this ward nas been 
 More human in its dens of sin. 
 
PART XV. 
 
 Wat atUi ^tatt. 
 
 •it 
 
 1.4 
 
k 
 
 Bui three feet good of that old wood, 
 
 So scarred in war, and rotten, 
 Was thrown aside, unknown its pride, 
 
 Its honors all forgotten : 
 
 IVhen, as in shade the block was laid, 
 
 Two robins, perching on it, 
 Thought that place best to build a nest, — 
 
 They planned it, and have done it: 
 
 The splintered spot which lodged a shot 
 
 Is lined with moss and feather, 
 And, chirping loud, a callow brood 
 
 Are nestling up together. 
 
 How full of bliss, — how peaceful is 
 
 That spot tht soft nest caging, 
 Where war^s alarms and blood-stained arms 
 
 Were once around it raging. 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
PART XV. 
 
 Wex anti ^tatt. 
 
 
 'i» -1 
 
 ',- 
 
 arms 
 
 TUPPER. 
 
 DRIVING HOME THE COWS. 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 
 He turned them into the river-lane ; 
 
 One after another he let them pass, 
 And fastened the meadow bars again. 
 
 Under the willows and over the hill 
 He patiently followed their sober pace ; 
 
 The merry whistle for once was still, 
 And something shadowed the sunny face. 
 
 Only a boy ! and his father had said 
 He never would let his youngest go ; 
 
 Two already were lying dead 
 
 Under the feet of the trampling foe. 
 
 But after the evening work was done, 
 
 And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, 
 Over his shoulder he slung his gun 
 
 And stealthily followed the foot-path damp, 
 
 Across the clover and through the wheat, 
 With resolute heart and purpose grim, 
 
 Though cold was the dew to the hurrying feet, 
 And the blind bat's flitting startled him. 
 
 Thrice since then had the lane been white, 
 And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom ; 
 
 And now, when the cows came back at night. 
 The feeble father drove them home. 
 
;r 
 
 406 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 For news had come to the lonely farm 
 That three were lying where two had lain ; 
 
 And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm 
 Could never lean on a son's again. 
 
 '■j 
 
 I ' 
 
 The summer days grew cold and late, 
 
 He went for the cows, when the work was done ; 
 
 lUit down the lane, as he opened the gate, 
 He saw them coming, one by one, — 
 
 Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, 
 
 Shaking their horns in the evening wind ; 
 
 Cropping the buttercups out of the grass — 
 But who was it following close behind? 
 
 Loosely swung in the idle air 
 
 The empty sleeve of army blue ; 
 And worn and pale, from the crisping hair 
 
 Looked out a face that the father knew. 
 
 For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, 
 
 And yield their dead unto life again ; 
 And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn 
 
 In golden glory at last may wane. 
 
 The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes ; 
 
 For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, 
 And under the silent evening skies 
 
 Together they followed the cattle home. 
 
 Kate Putnam Osgood. 
 
 ROLL-CALL. 
 
 " Corporal Grzfn I " the orderly cried ; 
 " Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear. 
 From the lips of the soldier who stood near; 
 
 And '• Here " was the word the next replied. 
 
 " Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell — 
 This time no answer followed the call ; 
 Only his rear man had seen him fall. 
 
 Killed or wounded ; he could not tell. 
 
 ;f 1 1. 
 
 i ■' I'ii 
 
 There they stood in the falling light, 
 
 These men of battle with grave, dark looks, 
 As plain to be read as open books. 
 
 While slowly gathered the shades of night. 
 
WAR AND PEACE. 
 
 407 
 
 lain; 
 
 : was done ; 
 te, 
 
 'ind ; 
 
 ^s — 
 d? 
 
 liair 
 lew. 
 
 y-awn, 
 ' dawn 
 
 ng eyes ; ' 
 
 lips are dumb, 
 
 ome. 
 
 UTNAM Osgood. 
 
 The fern on the hillsides was spla-hed with blood, 
 And down in the corn where the poppies grew 
 Were redder stains than the poppies knew, 
 
 And crimson dyed was the river's flood. 
 
 For the foe had crossed from the other side 
 That day, in the face of a murderous fire. 
 That swept them down in its terrible ire. 
 
 And their life-blood went to color the tide. 
 
 " Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came 
 Two stalwart soldiers into the line, 
 Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, 
 
 Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name. 
 
 " Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, " Here ! " 
 " Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. 
 They were brothers, these two ; the sad winds sighed, 
 
 And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. 
 
 " Ephraim Deanc ! " — then a soldier spoke ; 
 
 " Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said; 
 
 " Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead. 
 Just after the enemy wavered and broke. 
 
 "Close to the roadside his body lies; 
 
 I paused a moment and gave him drink ; 
 
 He murmured his mother's name, I think. 
 And death came with it and closed his eyes." 
 
 'Twas a victory, yes, but it cost us dear — 
 For that company's roll, when called at night. 
 Of a hundred men who went into the fight, 
 
 Numbered but twenty that answered " Here I " 
 
 San Francisco Argonatit. N. G. SllEPARD. 
 
 I ! 
 
 ied; 
 I clear, 
 ood near ; 
 replied. 
 
 tall; 
 
 [tk looks, 
 I night. 
 
 THE COUNTERSIGN WAS MARY. 
 
 'T WAS near the break of day, but still 
 
 The moon was shining brightly ; 
 The west wind as it passed the flowers 
 
 Sec each one swaying lightly; 
 The sentry slow paced to and fro, 
 
 A faithful night-watch keeping. 
 While in the tents behind him stretched 
 
 His comrades, — all were sleeping. 
 
 Slow to and fro the sentry paced. 
 His musket on his shoulder; 
 
 Rut not a thought of death or war 
 Was with the brave young soldier. 
 
4o8 
 
 ! I 
 
 ( 
 
 "^ « 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Ah, no I his heart was far away 
 
 Where, on a Western prairie, 
 A rose-twined cottage stood. That night 
 
 The countersign was " Mary." 
 
 And there his own true love he saw, 
 
 Her blue eyes kindly beaming. 
 Above them, on her sun-kissed brow, 
 
 Her curls like sunshine gleaming : — 
 He heard her singing, as she churned 
 
 The butter in the dairy. 
 The song he loved the best. That night 
 
 The countersign was '' Mary." 
 
 " Oh, for one kiss from her ! " he sighed, 
 
 When, up the lone road glancing, 
 He spied a form, a little form, 
 
 With faltering steps advancing; i 
 
 And as it neared him, silently 
 
 He gazed at it in wonder ; 
 Then dropped his musket to his hand, 
 
 And challenged, — " Who goes yonder ? " 
 
 Still on it came. *' Not one step more. 
 
 Be you man, child, or fairy, 
 Unless you give the countersign ; 
 
 Halt I who goes there I " — " 'T is Mary," 
 A sweet voice cried, and in his arms 
 
 The girl he 'd left behind him 
 Half fainting fell. O'er many miles 
 
 She *d bravely toiled to find him. 
 
 " I heard that you were wounded, dear," 
 
 She sobbed. " My heart was breaking ; 
 I could not stay a moment, but, 
 
 All other ties forsaking, 
 I travelled, by my grief made strong. 
 
 Kind Heaven watching o'er me. 
 Until — unhurt and well .^ " " Yes, love — 
 
 At last you stood before me." 
 
 " They told me that I could not pass 
 
 The lines to seek my lover 
 Before day fairly came ; but I 
 
 Pressed on ere night was over. 
 And, as I told my name, I found 
 
 The way free as our prairie." 
 "Because, thank God ! to-night," he said, 
 
 " The countersign is ' Mary.' " 
 
 Margaret Eytinge. 
 
WAR AND PEACE. 
 
 OUR LAST TOAST. 
 
 We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, 
 
 And the walls around are bare ; 
 As they shout to our peals of laughter, 
 
 It seems that the dead are there. 
 But stand to your glasses, steady I 
 
 We drink to our comrades' eyes, 
 Quaff a cup to the dead already, 
 
 And hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Not here are the goblets glowing — 
 
 Nat here is the vintage sweet ; 
 'T is cold as our hearts are growing, 
 
 And dark as the doom we meet. 
 But stand to your glasses, steady I 
 
 And soon shall our pulses rise, — 
 A cup to the dead already, 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 Not a sigh for the lot that darkles. 
 
 Not a tear for the friends that sink; 
 We '11 fall 'neath the wine-cup's sparkles 
 
 As mute as the wine we drink. 
 So, stand to your glasses, steady I 
 
 'T is this that respite buys. 
 One cup to the dead already, 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies I 
 
 Time was when we frowned at others — 
 
 We thought we were wiser then ; 
 Ha, ha 1 let them think of their mothers, 
 
 Who hope to see them again. 
 No, stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 The thoughtless here are wise ; 
 A cup to the dead already, 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies I 
 
 Here 's many a hand that 's shaking ; 
 
 Here 's many a cheek that 's sunk. 
 But soon, though our hearts are breaking, 
 
 They '11 burn with the wine we 've drunk. 
 So, stand to your glasses, steady ! 
 
 'Tis here the revival lies ; 
 A cup to the dead already. 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 There's a mist on the glass congealing — 
 'T is the hurricane's fiery breath ; 
 
 And thus doth the warmth of feeling 
 Turn to ice in the grasp of death. 
 
 409 
 
 I 
 
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 410 
 
 r/i^iE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Ho, stand to your glasses, steady! 
 
 For a moment the vapor flies; 
 A cup to the dead already, 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies I 
 
 Who dreads to the dust returning, 
 
 Who shrinks from the sable shore. 
 Where the high and haughty yearning 
 
 Of the soul shall sing no more ? 
 Ho, stand to your glasses, steady I 
 
 The world is a world of lies ; 
 A cup to the dead already, 
 
 Hurrah for the next that dies 1 
 
 Cat off from the land that bore us, 
 
 Betrayed by the land we find. 
 Where the brightest hava gone before us, 
 
 And the dullesi. remain behind. 
 Stand — stand Lo your glasses, steady ! 
 
 'T is all we 've got to prize ; 
 A cup to the dead already, 
 
 And hurrah for the next that dies ! 
 
 BarthwLomew Dowling. 
 
 AT LAST. . 
 
 O'er the sunlit hills of Berkshire drooped the drowsy summer 
 
 calm. 
 Filling all the glens and valleys with the silence like a psalm ; 
 Like an angel-chanted anthem thrilling toward a poet's ear, 
 Till he dreams the mystic rhythm God alone can live and hear. 
 
 By a little spring that bubbled from beneath a towering pine. 
 Hidden half and overshaded by the sprays of blackberry vine, 
 Stood a man and maiden, waiting till the parting hour should 
 
 come, 
 When their clasping hands must sever at the rattle of the drum, 
 
 He to offer life for duty on the swart Virginian plain, 
 
 She to watch and hope his coming through the sunshine and the 
 
 rain. 
 Very few the words they uttered as they waited hand in hand, 
 But the silence throbbed with voices that their hearts could 
 
 understand. 
 
 Terider voices of the past time, and the days forever done, — 
 Days divinely sweet and holy, when their love had just begun ; 
 Hopeful voices of the future whispering of the joys to be, 
 When the clanging calls of battle hushed to hymns of victory. 
 
drowsy summer 
 
 WA/? AND PEACE. 
 
 All 
 
 Sank the day into the sunset, and there came the tread of feet, 
 Marching to the sound of music, up the length of level street ; 
 Then he drew her to his bosom, parting backward from her face 
 The long golden hair, whose halo made a glory in the place ; 
 
 Almost calm above liis passion, as he whispered, " I must go ; 
 You will send me letters often ? kiss them where you sign them 
 
 — so I 
 And if I no more come homeward," trembling grew his lips and 
 
 white, 
 " All these happy days together, you will not forget them quite ? " 
 
 Answer none of word or gesture for a moment did she deign. 
 Save the mute, pathetic promise of her eyes' remonstrant pain. 
 Then, because her love sat higher than his doubts could lift their 
 
 fronts, 
 She drew down his lips and kissed them, as a woman kisses once. 
 
 " Would to God," she said, " my lover, that my life for thine 
 
 might be! 
 But where'er his voice shall call thee, in his time I Ml follow 
 
 thee." 
 That was all. The soldiers* tramping passed and slowly died 
 
 away. 
 And she knelt beside the pine-tree all alone to weep and pray. 
 
 Came the solemn twilight gemming sky and stream with stany 
 
 spheres, 
 Came the tender twilight dropping over all its dewy tears ; 
 And she sought once more her duties and the dull routine of life; 
 Tenfold harder in the bearing than the battle's frenzied strife. 
 
 
 i 
 
 i i ' 
 
 I ! 
 
 ttle of the drum, 
 
 Days of forced and weary marches and of combat fierce and 
 
 red. 
 Nights of bivouac round the camp-fire with the star alone 
 
 o'erhead. 
 Months of hopeless, hungry torture in the Southern prison-pen. 
 And a dumb, dead face that never love should wake to life again. 
 
 On the frozen hills of Berkshire white the snows of winter lie. 
 Scarlet red against the sunset where their summits pierce the sky. 
 In a little country churchyard climbing up the side of one. 
 Where the first arbutus blossoms, and the grass greens first 
 i'the sun, 
 
 Side by side two graves are sleeping. Over one the flowers have 
 
 grown 
 Ten long years, and bloomed and withered, and the autumn 
 
 leaves have blown. 
 On the headstone of the other the first wreaths have hardly dried, 
 Where at last the soldier's sweetheart slumbers by her lover's 
 
 side. 
 
412 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY 
 
 • 'j'i 
 
 I'l \\\ 
 
 i'i 
 
 Each thin hand resting on a grave, 
 
 Her lips apart in prayer, 
 A mother knelt, and left her tears 
 
 Upon the violets there. 
 O'er many a rood of vale and lawn, 
 
 Of hill and forest gloom. 
 The reaper Death had revelled in 
 
 His fearful harvest home. 
 The last unquiet summer shone 
 
 Upon a fruitless fray ; 
 From yonder forest charged the blue 
 
 Down yonder slope the gray. 
 
 The hush of death was on the scene, 
 
 And sunset o'er the dead, 
 In that oppressive stillness, 
 
 A pall of glory spread. 
 I know not, dare not question how 
 
 I met the gha?tly glare 
 Of each upturned and stirless face 
 
 That shrunk and whitened there. 
 I knew my noble boys had stood 
 
 Through all that withering day, 
 I knew that Willie wore the blue, 
 
 That Harry wore the gray. 
 
 I thought of Willie's cleiir blue eye, ^ 
 
 His wavy hair of gold, 
 That clustered on a fearless brow 
 
 Of purest Saxon mould , 
 Of Harry, with his raven Iccks 
 
 And eagle glance of prid'; ; 
 Of how they clasped each Ocher's hand 
 
 And left their mother's side ; 
 How hand in hand they bore my prayers 
 
 And blessings on the way — 
 A noble heart beneath the blue. 
 
 Another 'neath the gray. 
 
 The dead, with white and folded hands, 
 
 That hushed our village homes, 
 I 've seen laid calmly, tenderly, 
 
 Within their darkened rooms ; 
 But there I saw distorted limbs. 
 
 And many an eye aglare. 
 In the soft purple twilight of 
 
 The thunder-smitten air. 
 
WA/l AND PEACE. 
 
 413 
 
 ^1 
 
 Along the slope and on the sward 
 
 In ghastly ranks they lay, 
 And there was blood upon the blue 
 
 And blood upon the gray. 
 
 I looked and saw his blood, and his ; 
 
 A swift and vivid dream 
 Of blended years flashed o'er me, when. 
 
 Like some cold shadow, came 
 A blindness of the eye and brain — 
 
 The same that seizes one 
 When men are smitten suddenly 
 
 Who overstare the sun ; 
 And while, blurred with the sudden stroke 
 
 That swept my soul, I lay, 
 They buried Willie in his blue, 
 
 And Harry in his gray. 
 
 The shadows fall upon their graves ; 
 
 They fall upon my heart ; 
 And through the twilight of this soul 
 
 Like dews the tears will start ; 
 The starlight comes so silently 
 
 And lingers where they rest; 
 So hope's revealing starlight sinks 
 
 And shines witliin my breast. 
 They ask not there, where yonder heaven 
 
 Smiles with eternal day, 
 Why Willie wore the loyal blue, 
 
 Why Harry wore the gray. 
 
 SI ■ 
 
 I 
 
 *» 
 
 ii>i . 
 
 •1 \ I 
 
 
 THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. 
 
 If 
 
 By the flow of the inland river. 
 
 Whence the fleets of iron have fled, 
 Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, 
 
 Asleep are the ranks of the dead. 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Under the one, the Blue, 
 
 Under the other, the Gray. 
 
 Those in the robings of glory, 
 
 These in the gloom of defeat, 
 All with the battle-blood gory, 
 
 In the dusk of eternity meet. 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Under the laurel, the Blue, ' 
 
 Under the willow, the Gray. 
 
 ^ 
 
414 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 From the silence of sorrowful hours 
 
 The desolate mourners go, 
 Lovingly laden with flowers 
 
 Alike for the friend and the foe. 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Under the roses, the blue, 
 
 Under the lilies, the Gray. 
 
 So with an equal splendor 
 
 The morning sun-rays fall, 
 With a touch, nnpartially tender, 
 
 On the blossoms blooming for all. 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Broidered with gold, the Blue, 
 
 Mellowed with gold, the Gray. 
 
 
 So when the summer callcth 
 
 On forest and field of grain, 
 With an equal murmur falleth 
 
 The cooling drip of the rain. 
 Under the sod and the dew, 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Wet with the rain, the Blue, 
 
 Wet with the rain, the Gray. 
 
 Sadly, but not upbraiding, 
 
 The generous deed was done ; 
 In the storm of the years that are fading 
 
 No braver battle was won. 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Under the blossoms, the Blue, 
 
 Under the garlands, the Gray. 
 
 : ' J! 
 
 No more shall the war-cry sever, 
 
 Nor the winding river be red ; 
 They banish our anger forever. 
 
 When they laurel the graves of our dead. 
 Under the sod and the dew. 
 
 Waiting the judgment day, — 
 Love and tears for the Blue, 
 
 Tears and love for the Gray. 
 
 Francis Miles Finch. 
 
IVA/l AND PEACE. 415 
 
 DECORATION DAY. 
 
 I. 
 
 The Eastern wizard-^ do a wondrous thing. 
 Which travellers, havMie, seen, scarce dare to tell ; 
 Drop|)ing a seed in cartli, by subtle spell 
 Of hidden heat they force the germ to spring 
 To instant life and growth ; no faltering 
 'Twixt leaf and flower and fruit ; they rise and swell 
 To perfect shape and size, as if there fell 
 Upon them all which seasons hold and bring. 
 But Love far greater magic shows to-day ; 
 Lifting its feeble hands, which can but reach 
 The hand's-breadth up, it stretches all the way 
 From earth to heaven, and, triumphant, each 
 Sweet, wilting blossom sets, before it dies, 
 Full in the sight of smiling angels' eyes. 
 
 II. 
 
 But ah ! the graves which no man names or knows, 
 
 Uncounted graves, which never can be found ; 
 
 Graves of the precious " missing," where no sound 
 
 Of tender weeping will be heard, where goes 
 
 No loving step of kindred. Oh, how flows 
 
 And yearns our thought to them I More holy ground 
 
 Of graves than this, we say, is that whose bound 
 
 Is secret till eternity disclose 
 
 Its sign. But Nature knows her wilderness. 
 
 There are no " missing " in her numbered ways ; 1 1 
 
 In her great heart is no forgctfulness ; 
 
 Each grave she keeps she will adorn, caress. 
 
 We cannot lay such wreaths as summer lays, 
 
 And a// her days are " Decoration Days "I 
 
 THE MESSAGE OF VICTORY. 
 
 " News to the king, good news for all ! " 
 T/ie corn is trodden^ the river runs red, 
 "News of the battle," the heralds call, 
 " We have won the field ; we have taken the town. 
 We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down." 
 And the dying lie zvith the dead. 
 
 " Who was my bravest ?" quoth the king. 
 
 The corn is trodden, the river runs red. 
 " Whom shall I honor for this great thing ? " 
 " Threescore were best, where none was worst ; 
 But Walter Wendulph was aye the first." 
 
 And the dying lie with the dead. 
 
 i 
 
 I ii 
 
 if 
 
 H 
 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
4l6 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 " What of my husband ? " quoth thp bride. 
 
 The corn is trodden, the river is red. 
 " Comes he to-morrow ? how long will he bide ? " 
 " Put off thy bride-gear, busk thee in black; 
 Walter Wendulph will never come back." 
 
 And the dying lie with the dead. 
 
 Augusta Webster. 
 
 CONQUERED AT LAST. 
 
 Shortly after the last yellow-fever scourge swept up the Mississippi Valley 
 the Mobile Neius offered a prize for the poem by a Southern writer which 
 should best express the gratitude of the Southern heart towards the people of 
 the North for the philanthropy and magnanimity so nobly and freely displayed 
 during the pestilence. This offer called forth seventy-seven compositions from 
 vaiK/us parts of the South, and the prize was finally awarded to Miss Maria 
 L. Eve, of Augusta, Ga., the author of Conquered at Last, 
 
 T'^ 
 
 ' ';! 
 
 I'. 
 
 You came to us once, O brothers, in wrath, 
 And rude desolation followed your path. 
 
 You conquered us then, but only in part, 
 For a stubborn thing is the human heart. 
 
 So the mad wind blows in his might and main, 
 And the forests bend to his breath like grain, 
 
 Their heads in the dust and their branches broke J 
 But how shall he soften their hearts of oak } 
 
 You swept o'er our land like the whirlwind's wing, 
 But the human heart is a stubborn thing. 
 
 We laid down our arms, we yielded our will. 
 But our heart of heart was unconqucred still. 
 
 "We are vanquished," we said, "but our wounds must heal ; " 
 We gave you our swords, but our hearts were steel. 
 
 " We are conquered," we said, but our hearts were sore. 
 And " woe to the conquered " on every door. 
 
 But the spoiler came and he would not spare, 
 
 And the angel that walketh in darkness was there : — 
 
 He walked through the valley, walked through the street. 
 And he left the print of his fiery feet ' 
 
 In the dead, dead, dead, that were everywhere, 
 And buried away with never a prayer. 
 
usTA Webster. 
 
 WAI? AND PEACE. 
 
 From the desolate land, from its very heart, 
 There went forth a cry to the uttermost part : 
 
 417 
 
 You heard it, O brothers ! — With never a measure 
 You opened your hearts, and poured out your treasure. 
 
 O Sisters of Mercy, you gave above these I 
 
 For you helped, we know, on your bended knees. 
 
 Your pity was human, but oh I it was more. 
 When you shared our cross and our burden bore. 
 
 Your lives in your hands you stood by our side ; 
 Your lives for our lives — you lay down and died. 
 
 And no greater love hath a man to give. 
 
 Than to lay down his life that his friends may live. 
 
 You poured in our wounds the oil and the wine 
 That you brought to us from a Hand Divine. 
 
 You conquered us once, and our swords we gave ; 
 We yield now our hearts — they are all we have. 
 
 Our last trench was there, and it held out long ; 
 It is yours, O friends ! and you '11 find it strong. 
 
 Your love had a magic diviner than art, 
 
 And " Conquered by Kindness " we '11 write on our heart. 
 
 Maria L. Eve. 
 
 
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 27 
 
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PART XVI. 
 
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 Jog on, jog on^ the foot-path way, 
 And merrily hcnt the stilc-a : 
 
 A merry heart goes all the day, 
 Ycur sad tires in a mile-a. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 ■( f 
 
AKSPEARE. 
 
 PART XVI. 
 
 Cometip, ^^utle^que, ^arobp, ant 
 epitaph. 
 
 In the smoke of my dear cigarito 
 
 Cloud castles rise gorgeous and tall, 
 And Eros, divine muchachito, 
 
 With smiles hovers over it all. 
 
 But dreaming, forgetting to cherish 
 
 The fire at my lips, as it dies, 
 The dream and the rapture must perish, 
 
 And Eros descend from the skies. 
 
 O wicked and false muchachito. 
 
 Your rapture I yet may recall ; 
 But like my re-lit cigarito, 
 A bitterness tinges it all. 
 
 Camilla K. von K. 
 — »-— 
 
 IN PRAIS^ OF WINE. 
 
 Diogenes, surly and proud, 
 
 Who snarled at the Macedon youth. 
 Delighted in wine that was good. 
 
 Because in good wine there was truth ; 
 But, growing as poor as Job, 
 
 Unable to purchase a flask. 
 He chose for his mansion a tub, 
 
 And lived by the scent of the cask. 
 
 Ileraclitus ne'er would deny 
 To tipple and cherish his heart. 
 
 And when he was maudlin he *d cry 
 Because he had emptied his quart ; 
 
 Mi 
 
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5; IT 
 
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 422 T/fE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Though some are so foolish to think 
 He wept at men's folly and vice, 
 
 *T was only his fashion to drink 
 Till the liquor flowed out of his eyes. 
 
 Democritus always was glad 
 
 Of a bumper to cheer up his soul, 
 And would laugh like a man that was mad, 
 
 When over a good flowing bowl. 
 As long as his cellar was stored, 
 
 The liquor he 'd merrily quaff; 
 And when he was drunk as a lord, 
 
 At those who were sober he 'd laugh. 
 
 Copernicus, too, like the rest, 
 
 Believed there was wisdom in wine, 
 And thought that a cup of the best 
 
 Made reason the better to shine. 
 With wine he 'd replenish his veins 
 
 And make his philosophy reel ; 
 Then fancied the world, like his brain. 
 
 Turned round like a chariot wheel. 
 
 Aristotle, that master of arts, 
 
 Had been but a dunce without wine ; 
 And what we ascribe to his parts. 
 
 Is due to the juice of the vine ; 
 His belly, most writers agree, 
 
 Was as big as a watering-trough ; 
 He therefore leaped into the sea. 
 
 Because he 'd have liquor enough. 
 
 Old Plato, the learned divine, 
 
 He fondly to wisdom was prone ; 
 But had it not been for good wine, 
 
 H.s merits had never been known. 
 By wine we are generous made, 
 
 It furnishes fancy with wings ; 
 Without it, we ne'er should have had 
 
 Philosophers, poets, or kings. 
 
 ' WHY TRUTH GOES NAKED. 
 
 List to a tale well worth the ear 
 Of all who wit and sense admire ; 
 
 Invented, it is very clear. 
 
 Some ages prior to Matthew Prior. 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 423 
 
 Falsehood and Truth " upon a time," 
 
 One day in June's delicious weather 
 ('Twas in a distant age and clime), 
 
 Like sisters, took a walk together. 
 On, on their pretty way they took 
 
 Through fragrant wood and verdant meadow, 
 To where a beech beside a brook 
 
 Invited rest beneath its shadow. 
 There, sitting in the pleasant shade 
 
 Upon the margin's grassy matting 
 (A velvet cushion ready made), 
 
 The young companions fell to chatting. 
 Now, while in voluble discourse 
 
 On this and that their tongues were running, 
 As habit bids each speak — perforce, 
 
 The one is frank, the other cunning ; 
 Falsehood, at length, impatient grown 
 
 With scandals of her own creation, 
 Said, " Since we two are quite alone. 
 
 And nicely screened from observation, 
 Suppose in this delightful rill. 
 
 While all around is so propitious, 
 We take a bath ? " Said Truth, " I will — 
 
 A bath, I 'm sure, will be delicious ! " 
 At this her robe she cast aside. 
 
 And in the stream that ran before her 
 She plunged — like Ocean's happy bride — 
 
 As naked as her mother bore her I 
 Falsehood at leisure now undressed. 
 
 Put off the robes her limb? that hamper. 
 And having donned Truth's snow-white vest, 
 
 Ran off as fast as she could scamper. 
 Since then the subtle maid, in sooth, 
 
 Expert in lies and shrewd evasions. 
 Has borne the honest name of Truth, 
 
 And wears her clothes on all occasions. 
 While Truth, disdaining to appear 
 
 In Falsehood's petticoat and bodice. 
 Still braves all eyes from year to year 
 
 As naked as a marble goddess. 
 
 i ■'\ 
 
 I 
 
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 IF YOU WANT / KISS, WHY, TAKE IT. 
 
 There 's a jolly Saxon proverb 
 
 That is pretty much like this, — 
 That a man is half in heaven 
 
 If he has a woman's kiss. 
 There is danger in delaying, 
 
 For the sweetness may forsake it ; 
 So I tell you, bashful lover, 
 
 If you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 I 
 
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 424 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Never let another fellow 
 
 Steal a march on you in this ; 
 Never let a laughing maiden 
 
 See you spoiling for a kiss. 
 There s a royal way to kissing, 
 
 And the jolly ones who make it 
 Have a motto that is winning, — 
 
 If you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 Any fool may face a cannon, 
 
 Anybody wear a crown, 
 But a man must win a woman 
 
 If he 'd have her for his own. 
 Would you have the golden apple. 
 
 You must find the tree and shake it ; 
 If the thing is worth the having, 
 
 And you want a kiss, why, take it. 
 
 _ .;,a 
 
 Who would burn upon a desert 
 
 With a forest smiling by "i 
 Who would change his sunny summer 
 
 For a bleak and wintry sky } 
 Oh, I tell you there is magic. 
 
 And you cannot, cannot break it ; 
 For the sweetest part of loving 
 
 Is to want a kiss, and take it. 
 
 1 jj. 
 
 < 
 
 \t I 
 
 TWO MEN I KNOW. 
 
 I KNOW a duke ; well, let him pass — 
 I may not call his grace an ass ; 
 Though if I did I 'd do no wrong, 
 Save to the asses and my song. 
 
 The duke is neither wise nor good ; 
 He gambles, drinks, scorns womanhood, 
 And at the age of twenty-four 
 Was worn and battered as threescore. 
 
 I know a waiter in Pall Mall 
 
 Who works, and waits, and reasons well ; 
 
 Is gentle, courteous, ind refined. 
 
 And has a magnet in his mind. 
 
 What is it makes his graceless grace 
 So like a jockey out of place ? 
 What makes the waiter — tell who can — 
 So very like a gentleman ? 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 425 
 
 Perhaps their mothers — God is great 1 — 
 Perhaps 't is accident, or fate I 
 Perhaps because — hold not my pen — 
 We can breed horses but not men. 
 English Newspaper. 
 
 DARWINISM IN THE KITCHEN. 
 
 I WAS takin' off my bonnet 
 
 One arternoon at three, 
 When a hinseck jumped upon it 
 
 As proved to be a flea. 
 
 Then I takes it to the grate, 
 
 Between the bars to stick it, 
 But I had n't long to wait 
 
 Ere it changed into a cricket. 
 
 Says I, " Surelie my senses 
 
 Is a-gettin' in a fog ! " 
 So to drown it I commences, 
 
 When it halters to a frog. 
 
 Here my heart began to thump, * 
 
 And no wonder I felt funky ; 
 For the frog, with one big jump, 
 
 Leaped hisself into a monkey. 
 
 Then I opened wide my eyes, 
 
 His features for to scan, 
 And observed, with great surprise. 
 
 That that monkey was a man. 
 
 But he vanished from my sight, 
 
 And I sunk upon the floor, 
 Just as missus with a light 
 
 Come inside the kitching door. 
 
 Then, beginnin' to obuse me, 
 
 She says, " Sarah, you 've been drinkin' 
 I says, " No, mum, you '11 excuse me. 
 
 But I Ve merely been a-thinkm'. 
 
 " But as sure as I 'm a cinder. 
 
 That party what you see 
 A-gettin' out the winder 
 
 Have developed from a flea ! " 
 
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 426 T//E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 A SONG FOR SUMMER. 
 
 On for a lodge in a garden of cucumbers I 
 
 Oh for an iceberg or two at control I 
 Oh for a vale that at mid-day the dew cumbers I 
 
 Oh for a pleasure-trip up to the pole I 
 
 Oh for a little one-story thermometer 
 
 With nothing but zeroes all ranged in a row I 
 
 Oh for a big double-barrelled hygrometer, 
 To measure the moisture that rolls from my brow I 
 
 Oh that this cold world were twenty times colder I 
 
 (That 's irony red hot, it seemeth to me.) 
 Oh for a turn of its dreaded cold shoulder I 
 
 Oh what a comfort an ague would be I 
 
 t 
 Oh for a grotto frost-lined and rill-riven, 
 
 Scooped in the rock under cataract vast I 
 Oh for a winter of discontent even I 
 
 Oh for wet blankets judiciously cast I 
 
 Oh for a soda-fount spouting up boldly 
 
 From every hot lamp-post against the hot sky ! 
 
 Oh for a maiden to look on me coldly, 
 Freezing my soul with a glance from her eye I 
 
 Then oh for a draught from the cup of cold poison. 
 And oh, for a through ticket rm Coidgrave 
 
 To the baths of the Styx where a thick shadow lies on, 
 And deepens the chill of its dark running wave I 
 
 RossiTER Johnson. 
 
 A COCKNEY WAIL. 
 
 The great Pacific journey I have done, 
 
 In many a town and tent I 've found a lodgment, 
 I think I ve travelled to the setting sun, 
 
 And very nearly reached the day of judgment. 
 Like Launcelot in quest of Holy Grail, 
 
 From western Beersheba to Yankee Dan 
 I 've been a seeker, yet I sadly fail 
 
 To find the genuine type American. 
 
 Where is this object of my youthful wonder, 
 Who met me in the pages of Sam Slick, — 
 
 Who opened every sentence with " By thunder ! " 
 And whittled always on a bit of stick ? 
 
imbers 1 
 
 > a row ! 
 
 :r. 
 
 om my brow 1 
 
 les colder 1 
 
 i\e.) 
 
 lerl 
 
 1 
 
 asti 
 
 c hot sky 1 
 
 , her eye I 
 
 I cold poison, 
 clgrave 
 hadow lies on, 
 ing wave ! 
 ssiTER Johnson. 
 
 a lodgment, 
 
 n, 
 judgment. 
 
 Dan 
 
 nder, 
 ick, — 
 thunder 1 " 
 
 COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 427 
 
 The more the crowd of friends around me thickens, 
 The less my chance to meet him seems to be ; 
 
 Why did he freely show himself to Dickens, 
 To Dixon, Sala, TroUope, not to me ? 
 
 No one accosts me with the words, •' Wa'al, stranger ! " 
 
 Greets me as " Festive cuss,'' or shouts " ( )ld hoss 1 " 
 No grim six-shooter threatens me with danger, 
 
 If I don't " quickly pass the butter, boss." 
 Round friendly boards no " cocktail " ever passes, 
 
 No "brandy smash " my morning hour besets ; 
 And petticoats are worn by all the lasses. 
 
 And the pianos don't wear pantalettes. 
 
 The ladies, when you offer chicken salad, 
 
 Don't say, " I 'm pretty crowded now, I guess ; " 
 They don't sing Mrs. liarney Williams' ballad 
 
 Of " Bobbing Round," nor add "sir-ee " to yes. 
 I, too, have sat, like every other fellow, 
 
 In many a railway, omnibus, street car ; 
 No girl has spiked me with a fierce umbrella. 
 
 And said, " You git, I mean to sit right thar." 
 
 Gone are the Yankees of my early reading 1 
 
 Faded the Yankee land of eager quest ! 
 I meet with culture, courtesy, good-breeding. 
 
 Art, letters, men and women of the best. 
 Oh, fellow Britons, all my hopes are undone ! 
 
 Take counsel of a disappointed man : 
 Don't come out here, but stay at home in London, 
 
 And seek in books the true American. 
 
 I WUD KNOT DYE IN WINTUR. 
 
 I WUD knot dye in wintur. 
 
 When whiski punchez flo; 
 When pooty galls air skatin' 
 
 O'er fealds ov ice an' sno; 
 When sassidge-meet it phiving, 
 
 And hickrie knuts is tiiick ; 
 Owe ! who kud think of dighing. 
 
 Or even gettin' sick } 
 
 I wud knot dye in springtime, 
 
 And miss the turnup greens, 
 And the pooty song ov the leetle fraugs, 
 
 And the ski-lark's airly screams. 
 When burds begin thare wobbling. 
 
 And taters 'gin to sprout, 
 When turkics go a-gobblering, 
 
 I wud knjt then peg out. 
 
 
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 428 
 
 Mfi 
 
 t 
 
 r//£ HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 I wud knot dye in summer, 
 
 And leave the gaid'n sass, 
 The roasted lam, and l)iittcrmilk, 
 
 The kool plase in the grass ; 
 I wud knot dye in summer, 
 
 When everything's so hot. 
 And leave the whiski icw-lips — 
 
 Owe know ! Ide ruthcr knott. 
 
 I wud knot dye in ortum, 
 
 With pecches fitt fur eating, 
 When the wavy corn is gettin' wripe, 
 
 An' Kandidatcs is treating; 
 Phor these and other wreasons 
 
 Ide knot dye in the fall, 
 And — sinse I 've thprt it over — 
 
 I wud knot dye at all. 
 
 THE LITTLE PEACH. 
 
 A LITTLE peach in the orchard grew — 
 A little peach of emerald hue ; 
 Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, 
 It grew. 
 
 One day, passing the orchard through, 
 That little peach dawned on the view 
 Of Johnnie Jones and his sister Sue — 
 Those two. 
 
 Up at the peach a club he threw — 
 Down from the tree on which it grew 
 Fell the little peach of emerald hue — 
 Mon dieu I 
 
 She took a bite and he a chew, 
 And then the trouble began to brew — 
 Trouble the doctor could n't subdue — 
 Too true I 
 
 Under the turf where the daisies grew 
 They planted John and his sister Sue, 
 And their little souls to the angels flew — 
 Boo-hoo I 
 
 Rut what of the peach of emerald hue. 
 Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew ? 
 Ah, well, its mission on earth was through — 
 Adieu I 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 g« • 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 429 
 
 PAT'S LETTER. 
 
 Wkll, Mary, me darlint, I 'm landed at last, 
 
 And troth, tlK^ugh they tell nie the staimcr was fast, 
 
 It seems as if years upon years had cone by 
 
 Since Paddy looked intil your beautiful eye. 
 
 For Amerikay, darlint, — ye '11 think it is quarc, — 
 
 Is twenty times furder than Cork from Kildare; 
 
 And the say is that broad, and the waves are that high. 
 
 Ye 're tossed like a futball 'twixt wathcr and shky ; 
 
 And ye fale like a pratie burstin' the shkin, 
 
 And all ye can do is to howld yersilf in. 
 
 Ochone ! but me jewel, the say may be grand, 
 
 But when you come over, dear, thravel by land I 
 
 It 's a wonderful country, this — so I am towld — 
 
 They '11 not look at guineas so chape is the gowld ; 
 
 And the three that poor mother sewed into me coat 
 
 I sowld for a thriflc on lavin' the boat. 
 
 And the quarest of fashions ye iver have seen ! 
 
 They pay ye wid picters all painted in green. 
 
 And the crowds that are rushing here morning and night 
 
 Would make the Lord Lieutenant shake with the fright. 
 
 The strates are that full that no one can pass, 
 
 And the only law is, " Do not thread on the grass." 
 
 Their grass is the quarest of shows, by me vow, 
 
 Foi' it would n't be munched by a Candlemas cow. 
 
 Eugene Field. 
 
 Tell father I wint, as he bid me, to see 
 
 His friend Tim O'Shannon, from Killycaughee. 
 
 It 's rowlin' in riches O'Shannon is now, 
 
 "With a wife and tin babies, six pigs and a cow, 
 
 In a nate little house standing down from the strate, 
 
 With two beautiful rooms and a pigsty complate. 
 
 I thought of ye, darlint, and dramed such a drame ! 
 
 That mebbe some day we 'd be the same ; 
 
 Though troth, Tim O'Shannon's wife never could dare 
 
 (Poor yaller-skinned crayther !) with you to compare. 
 
 And as for the pigs, sure, 't is aisy to see 
 
 The bastes were not meant for this land of the free. 
 
 I think of ye, darlint, from morning till night. 
 And when I 'm not thinkin' ye 're still in my sight ! 
 I see your blue eyes with the sun in their glance — 
 Your smile in the meadow, your feet in the dance. 
 I '11 love ye and trust ye, both livin' and dead I 
 I 'm workin', acushla, for you — only you, 
 And I '11 make you a lady yit, if ye '11 be true ; 
 
 
430 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Though troth, ye can't climb Fortune's laddher so quick 
 Whin both of your shoulders are loaded with brick; 
 But 1 '11 do it — I swear it — by this and by that ; 
 Which manes what I dare n't say — from your own Pat. 
 
 QUEERQUILL. 
 Note. — Fifth line of fourth stanza evidently lost. 
 
 TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE. 
 
 The maid, as by the papers doth appear, 
 
 Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear, 
 
 To test Lothario's passion, simply said : 
 
 " Forego the weed before we go to wed. 
 
 For smoke take flame ; I '11 be that flame's bright fanner 
 
 To have your Anna, give up your Havana." 
 
 But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch, 
 
 Lit his cigar and threw away his match. 
 
 "OWED" TO MY POCKET-BOOK. 
 
 How fair thou art, O little book 
 
 Of scented Russia leather I 
 With stitches fanciful and fine 
 
 To hold you well together ; 
 But stitcheo strong are useless all, 
 
 There is no strain upon thee ; 
 The great brogan of poverty 
 
 Is very heavy on thee. 
 
 \ 
 
 What endless room is here for bills 
 
 Of large denominations, 
 With checks and bonds a goodly store 
 
 Ah, vain imaginations I 
 The hungriest pocket-book thou art 
 
 That ever in a highway 
 Was picked up by a well-fooled man 
 
 And cast into a by-way. 
 
 Consumption settled on thy form 
 
 Till you cannot grow thinner ; 
 In vain you plead with open mouth 
 
 Of me a greenback dinner. 
 'T is very sad thou couldst not stand 
 
 The drain upon thy system ; 
 I never knew what dollars were 
 
 Until I wholly missed them. 
 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 431 
 
 I 'm safe to say that there 's more cash 
 
 Outside of tnee than in thee ; 
 I 'd stake thee on some risky bet, 
 
 Nor care much who would win thee. 
 I look at thee and nothing see, — 
 
 They say you can't see nothing ; 
 Yet here it 's very palpable — 
 
 In sooth, not very soothing. 
 
 Should some highwayman thee demand, 
 
 I 'd gladly give thee to him ; 
 *T would lead him into suicide, 
 
 Or monstrously undo him. 
 Sad pocket-book ! I feel for thee, 
 
 liut not as in days sunny ; 
 Henceforth the pocket of my vest 
 
 Will carry all my money. 
 
 
 
 i 
 
 SUCH A DUCK. 
 
 Once Venus, deeming Love too fat, 
 
 Stopped all his rich, ambrosial dishes. 
 Dooming tiie boy to live on chat, — 
 
 To sup on songs and dine on wishrr 
 Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl, — 
 
 The starveling now no beauty boasted, — 
 He could have munched Minerva's owl. 
 
 Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted. 
 
 At last, half famished, almost dead, 
 
 He shot his mother's doves for dinner; 
 Young Lilla, passing, shook her head, — 
 
 Cried Love, " A shot at you, young sinner I " 
 " Oh, not at me ! " she urged her flight — 
 
 " I 'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling I " 
 " No," fainting Cupid cried, " not quite ; 
 
 But then — you 're such a duck, my darling ! " 
 
 -1 I 
 I 
 
 ANY ONE WILL DO. 
 
 A MAIDEN once, of certain age. 
 To catch a husband did engage ; 
 But, having passed the prime of life 
 In striving to become a wife 
 Without success, she thought it time 
 To mend the follies of her prime. 
 
M- 
 
 432 
 
 :^J 
 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Departing from the usual course 
 Of paint and such like for resource, 
 With all her might, this ancient maid 
 Beneath an oak-tree knelt, and prayed ; 
 Unconscious that a grave old owl 
 Was perched above — the mousing fowl ! 
 
 " Oh, give I a husband give ! " she cried, 
 " While yet I may become a bride ; 
 Soon will my day of grace be o'er, 
 And then, like many maids before, 
 I '11 die without an early love, 
 And none to meet me there above ! 
 
 " Oh, 't is a fate too hard to bear I 
 
 Then answer this my humble prayer. 
 
 And oh, a husband give to me I " 
 
 Just then the owl from out the tree, 
 
 In deep base tones cried, " Who-who-who ! " 
 
 " Who,' Lord ? And dost thou ask me who ? 
 
 Why, any one, good Lord, will do." 
 
 THE RABBI'S PRESENT. 
 
 A Rabbi once, by all admired. 
 
 Received, of high esteem the sign 
 From those his goodness thus inspired, 
 
 A present of a cask of wine. 
 But lo I when soon he came to draw, 
 
 A miracle in mode as rapid 
 But quite unlike what Cana saw, 
 
 Had turned his wine to water vapid. 
 The Rabbi never knew the cause. 
 
 For miracles are things of mystery ; 
 Though some like this have had their laws 
 
 Explained from facts of private history. 
 His friends, whom love did aptly teach. 
 
 Wished all to share the gracious task, 
 So planned to bring a bottle each, 
 
 And pour their wine in one great cask. 
 Now one by chance thought, " None will know, 
 
 And with the wine of all my brothers 
 One pint of water well may go ; " 
 
 And so by chance thought all the others. 
 
 Cor nh ill Magazine. 
 
 m 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQi E, PARODY, EPITAPH. 433 
 
 fowll 
 ;ried, 
 
 -r, 
 
 vho-who 1 " 
 t me who ? 
 
 T. 
 
 gn 
 ipired, 
 
 aw, 
 ?apid. 
 
 * 
 
 terv ; 
 their laws 
 
 history. 
 
 teach, 
 us task, 
 
 eat cask. 
 
 one will know, 
 
 r others 
 
 the others. 
 
 Century. 
 
 'SPACTALLY JIM. 
 
 I wus might)' good-lookin' when I wus young, 
 
 Peert an' black-eyed an' slim, 
 With fellers a-courtin' me Sunday nights, 
 
 'Spacially Jim. 
 
 The likeliest one of 'em all wus he, 
 
 Chipper an' han'som* an' trim ; 
 But I tossed up my head an' made fun o' the crowd, 
 
 'Spacially Jim. 
 
 I said I had n't no 'pinion o' men, 
 
 An' I would n't take stock in him ! 
 liut they kep' on a-comin' in spite o' my talk, 
 
 'Spacially Jim. 
 
 I got so tired o' havin' 'em roun' 
 
 {'Spacially Jim 1 ) 
 I made up my mind I 'd settle down 
 
 An' take up with him. 
 
 So we wus married one Sunday in church, 
 
 'T was crowded full to the brim ; 
 *T was the only way to git rid of 'em all, 
 
 'Spacially Jim. 
 
 B. M. 
 
 V' 
 
 A PULL-BACK. 
 
 A LirrLK Pull-Back sought one day 
 
 The gates of Paradise ; 
 Saint Peter wiped his spectacles 
 
 And rubbed his ancient eyes. 
 
 And throngs of female angels came 
 
 With curious gaze the while, 
 Intent, as ladies always are, 
 
 To see the latest style. 
 
 The saint put on his glasses then — 
 
 An observation took; 
 " What I what I " he said, " this traverses 
 
 The laws of ' must n't look.' 
 
 "Tied up in front t Piled up behind I 
 
 'T will never do, I fear I 
 The thing is too ridiculous — 
 
 You cannot enter here." 
 88 
 
434 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 What did she do ? My curious friend, 
 
 She got behind a tree ; 
 And in a jiffy she was dressed 
 
 As angels ought to be. 
 
 V>. '\ 
 
 Saint Peter kissed her then, and said ; 
 
 " Pass in, my little dear ; 
 But mind, you must n't introduce 
 
 Such naughty fashions here." 
 
 i! I . ! 
 
 A i ESSON IN MYTHOLOGY. 
 
 ':'fl!13 
 
 I READ to her, one summer day, 
 
 A little mythologic story , 
 
 About the maid who laughed at love, 
 
 And ran a race for 1o"t and glory. 
 
 I closed the book. She raised her eyes 
 And hushed the song she had been humming ; 
 
 Glancing across the shady lawn, 
 I saw my wealthy rival coming. 
 
 i* 
 
 ■ ,;-r 
 
 " These ancient tales," I gravely said, 
 " With meaning wise are often laden ; 
 
 And Atalanta well may stand 
 As type of many a modern maiden. 
 
 " Minus, of course, the classic scandal, 
 But with no less of nimble grace. 
 
 How many dainty slippered feet 
 Are running now that self -same race I 
 
 i L£ 
 
 " And when Hippomenes casts down 
 His golden apples, is there ever 
 
 A chance for Love to reach the goal ? " 
 With saucy smile, she answered, "Never I 
 
 I rose to go — she took my hand 
 
 (O Fate, you ne'er that clasp can sever ! ). 
 
 And, " Stay," she said, with sudden blush, — 
 " You know that I meant — ' hardly ever.' " 
 
 Eliza C. Hall. 
 
COMED\, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 435 
 
 ZOOLOGY. 
 
 Oh I merry is the Madrepore that sits beside the sea ; 
 The cheery litt'e Coralline hath many charms for me; 
 I love the fintj Echinoderms, of azure, green, and gray, 
 That handled roughly fling their arms impulsively away; 
 Then bring me here the microscope and let me see the cells 
 Wherein the little Zoophile like garden floweret dwells. 
 
 We Ml take the fair Anemone from off its rocky seat, 
 Since Rondeletius has said when fried 't is good to eat. 
 Dyspeptics from Sea-Cucumbers a lesson well may win, 
 They blithely take their organs out and then put fresh ones in. 
 The Rotifer in whirling round may surely bear the bell, 
 With Oceanic Hydrozoids that Huxley knows so well. 
 
 You 've heard of the Octopus, 't is a pleasant thing to know 
 He has a ganglion makes him blush, not red, but white as snow ; 
 And why the strange Cercaria, to go a long way back. 
 Wears ever, as some ladies do, a fashionable " sac ; " 
 And how the Pawn has parasites that on his head make holes ; 
 Ask Dr. Cobbold, and he '11 say they 're just like tiny soles. 
 
 Then study well zoology, and :idd unto your store 
 The tales of Biogenesis and Protoplasmic lore ; 
 As Paley neatly has observed, when into life they burst. 
 The frog and the philosopher are just the same at first ; 
 But what 's the origin of life remains a puzzle still. 
 Let Tyndall, Haeckel, Bastian, go wrangle as they will. 
 
 Punch. 
 
 % 
 
 \:\. 
 
 ii!^ ' 
 
 i 
 
 
 li 
 
 OLD FIDDLING JOSEY. 
 
 Eliza C. Hall. 
 
 Gtt yo' pardners, fust kwattilion ! 
 
 Stomp yo' feet an' raise 'em high ; 
 Tune is, " Oh, dat watermillion I 
 
 Gwine to git home bime-bye." 
 S'lute yo* pardners I scrape perlitely- 
 
 Don t be bumpin' 'gin de res' — 
 Balance all ! now step out rightly ; 
 
 Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes . 
 Fo'wa'd foah I — whoop up, niggers I 
 
 Back ag'in I don't be so slow — 
 Swing cornah's ! min' de figgers, 
 
 When I hollers den yo' go. 
 Top ladies cross ober, 
 
 Hold on till I takes a dram — 
 Gemmen solo I yes, I 's sober — 
 
 Kaint say how de fiddle am. 
 
li '■ 
 
 '.■Is 
 
 H' 
 
 hk! 
 
 i 
 
 Ml t 
 
 f ' 
 
 ^- ! 1 1|, 
 
 ll 
 
 1 . i t 
 
 i:| 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 ll 
 
 436 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Hands around ! hoi' up yo' faces ; 
 
 Don't be lookin' at yo' feet I 
 Swing yo' pardners ! to yo' places ! 
 
 Dat s de way — dat 's hard to beat. 
 Sides fo'w'd — when yo 's ready — 
 
 Make a bow as low 's you kin. 
 Swing acrost wid opp'site lady, 
 
 Now we '11 let you swop ag'in ; 
 Ladies change — shut up dat talkin' ; 
 
 Do yo* talkin' arter while — 
 Right an' lef I don't want no walkin' ; 
 
 Make yo' steps an' show yo* style. 
 
 Irwin Russell. 
 
 A SEASIDE INCIDENT. 
 
 " Why, Bob, you dear old fellow, 
 
 Where have you been these years ? 
 In Egypt, India, Khiva, 
 
 With the Khan's own volunteers ? 
 Have you scaled the Alps or Andes, 
 
 Sailed to Isles of Amazons "i 
 What climate, Bob, has wrought the change 
 
 Your face from brown to bronze ? " 
 
 She placed a dimpled hand in mine, 
 
 In the same frank, friendly way ; 
 We stood once more on the dear old beach, 
 
 And it seemed but yesterday 
 Since, standing on this same white shore, 
 
 She said, ^vith eyelids wet, 
 " Good-by. You may remember, Bob, 
 
 But I sh.iU not forget." 
 
 I held her hand and whispered low, 
 
 " Madge, darling, what of the years — 
 The ten long years that have intervened 
 
 Since, through the mist of tears. 
 We looked good-by on this same white beach 
 
 Here by the murmuring sea ? 
 You, Madge, were then just twenty, 
 
 And I was twenty-three." 
 
 A crimson blush came to her cheek, 
 
 " Hush, Bob," she quickly said ; 
 " Let 's look at the bathers in the surf — 
 
 There 's Nellie and Cousin Ned." 
 " And who 's that portly gentleman 
 
 On the shady side of life ? '* 
 "Oh, he belongs to our party, too — 
 
 In fact, Bob, I 'm his wife I 
 
It. 
 
 
 in'; 
 
 COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 437 
 
 " And I tell you, Bob. it 's an awful thing, 
 
 The way he does behave ; 
 Flirts with that girl in steel-gray silk — 
 
 Bob, why do you look so grave ? " 
 " The fact is, Madge — I — well, ahem ! 
 
 Oh, nothing at all, my dear — 
 Except that she of the steel-gray silk 
 
 Is the one I married last year." 
 New York Clipper. 
 
 WIN Russell. 
 
 ! change 
 >> 
 
 d beach, 
 
 shore, 
 
 ob, 
 
 irs — 
 ened 
 
 hite beach 
 
 ;urf — 
 
 LINES BY AN OLD FOGY. 
 
 I 'm thankful that the sun and moon 
 
 Are both hung up so high. 
 That no presumptuous hand can stretch 
 
 And pull them from the sky. 
 If they were not, I have no doubt 
 
 But some reforming ass 
 Would recommend to take them down 
 
 And light the world with gas. 
 
 ASTRONOMICAL. 
 
 " Cousin Edward, what do these scientist/" mean. 
 With all their big words and new fangles ? 
 
 This morning at breakfast they talked a whole hour 
 Of parallactical angles." 
 
 " Well, Lu, we will demonstrate here on the beach, 
 
 In a manner strikingly practical ; 
 You 're the moon, I the earth, and Simpkins a star ; 
 
 The angle is styled parallactical. 
 
 " The farther we get from our star, you perceive.. 
 
 The shorter this line, which the base is, 
 Till he melts in the infinite azure, and then, 
 
 There 's no space at all between faces." 
 
 "Oh, Edward, how could you ! and Simpkins right there, 
 
 With his handkerchief over his lips ; 
 What will the man think ? " " Oh, never mind, Lu, 
 
 He '11 think it a lunar eclipse." 
 
 Daily Graphic. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 \ : 
 
 I 
 
m 
 
 ■I ■; 
 
 }\ i' 
 
 n 
 
 r 
 
 438 T//£ HUMBLER POETS, 
 
 LINES ON A GRASSHOPPER. 
 (By a Granger Naturalist.) 
 
 I 'VE got him, at last, in the focus 
 
 Of a powerful telescope glass. 
 But he, magnified, looks like a slow cuss, 
 
 And his cars much like those of an ass. 
 
 His eyes are like two peeled potatoes ; 
 
 His wings like the sails of a ship ; 
 And his beard, which unshaven that way grows, 
 
 Seems to cover an acre of lip. 
 
 His stomach is large and capacious. 
 
 It always is hungry, no doubt ; 
 And, much like a hog, his rapacious 
 
 Desires may be gauged by his snout. 
 
 His legs are not merely for creeping, 
 They are muscular, angular, high ; 
 
 Just fitted for gallantly leaping, 
 
 When he chooses, plumb into the sky I 
 
 From his brawny bull neck, saffron-tinted, 
 
 Suspended by weather-stained rope, 
 Hangs r medal with Sanscrit imprinted : 
 " With this monster no mortal can cope ! 
 
 " He 's descended through long generations, 
 With a pedigree perfect and straight. 
 
 From the locust that scooped ancient nations 
 Whenever he lit at their gate." 
 
 CONVERSATIONAL. 
 
 "How's your father? " came the whisper. 
 Bashful Ned the silence breaking ; 
 
 " Oh, he 's nicely," Annie murmured, 
 Smilingly the question taking. 
 
 Conversation flagged a moment. 
 Hopeless, Ned essayed another : 
 
 " Annie, I — I," then a coughing. 
 And the question, " How 's your mother ? " 
 
 " Mother ? Oh, she 's doing finely I " 
 Fleeting fast was all forbearance, 
 
 When in low, despairing accents. 
 Came the climax, " How 's your parents ? " 
 
 Ir ■ ' *' 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 439 
 
 A SADDENED TRAMP. 
 
 " Now unto yonder wood-pile go, 
 
 Where toil till I return ; 
 And feel how proud a thing it is 
 
 A livelihood to earn." 
 A saddened look came o'er he tramp ; 
 
 He seemed like one b^relt. 
 He stowed away the victuals cold, 
 
 He — saw the wood, and left. 
 
 ill ■ 
 
 I 
 
 DELIGHTS OF CAMP LIFE. 
 
 Come to the home of the friendly mosquito. 
 List to his cheerful inspiriting hum ; 
 
 With his exuberant spirits he '11 greet, O, 
 All who will deign to his marshes to come. 
 
 Come where the bullfrogs are croaking aroi. J us, 
 Croaking our choruses back in our teeth ; 
 
 Come, for the black flies above do surround us ; 
 Come where the centipedes crawl underneath. 
 
 -' ^1 
 
 LAY OF A DAIRY-MAID. 
 
 The dairy-maid pensively milked the goat, 
 And pouting, she paused to mutter, 
 
 " I wish, you brute, you would turn to milk I ' 
 And the animal turned to butter. 
 
 v> 
 
 A TRAGIC POEM. 
 
 Canto one. 
 
 Boy, 
 
 Gun; 
 Joy, 
 
 run. 
 
 Canto two. 
 
 Gun, 
 
 Bust; 
 Bov, 
 
 Dust. 
 
440 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 OLD TIME AND I. 
 
 ni 
 
 Old Time and I the other night 
 
 Had a carouse together ; 
 The wine was golden warm and bright — 
 
 Av ' just like summer weather. 
 Quoth I, " There 's Christmas come again, 
 
 And I no farthing richer. " 
 Time answered, " Ah ! the old, old strain, — 
 
 I prithee pass the pitcher. 
 
 " Why measure all your good in gold ? 
 
 No rope of sand is weaker ; 
 'T is hard to get, 't is hard to hold — 
 
 Come, lad, fill up your beiucer. 
 Hast thou not found true frier.ds more true, 
 
 And loving ones more loving?" 
 I could but say, " A few — a few ; 
 
 So keep the liquor moving." 
 
 " Hast thou not seen the prosperous knave 
 
 Come down a precious thumper, 
 His cheats disclosed? " " I have — I have ! " 
 
 *' Well, surely that 's a bumper." 
 " Nay, hold awhile ; I 've seen the just 
 
 Find all their hopes grow dimmer." 
 " They will hope on, and strive, and trust. 
 
 And conquer I " " That 's a brimmer." 
 
 " 'T is not because to-day is dark, 
 
 No brighter day 's before 'em ; "^ 
 
 There 's rest for every storm-tossed bark. " 
 
 " So be it ! Pass the jorum I 
 Yet I must own I would not mind 
 
 To be a little richer." 
 " Labor and wait, and you may find -- 
 
 Hallo ! an empty pitcher." 
 
 Mark Lemon. 
 
 : Hi 
 
 THE HIGHWAY COW. 
 
 The hue of her hide was dusky brown, 
 Her body was lean and her neck was slim, 
 
 One horn was turned up and the other turned down, 
 She was keen of vision and long of limb ; 
 
 With a Roman nose and a short stump tail. 
 
 And ribs like the hoops on a home-made pail. 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 441 
 
 ain, 
 in,— 
 
 true, 
 
 nave 
 
 lave ! " 
 
 list, 
 er." 
 
 irk. " 
 
 lARK Lemon. 
 
 slim, 
 
 urned down, 
 nb; 
 tail, 
 pail. 
 
 Many a mark did her body bear ; 
 
 She had bi;cn a i.irgot for all things known ; 
 On many a scar the dusky hair 
 
 Would grow no more where it once had grown ; 
 Many a passionate, parting siiot 
 Had left upon her a lasting spot. 
 
 Many and many a well-aimed stone, 
 
 Many a brickbat of goodly size, 
 And many a cudgel swiftly thrown 
 
 Had brought the tears to her loving eyes. 
 Or had bounded off fioni her bony back 
 With a noise like the sound of a rifle-crack. 
 
 Many a day had she passed in the pound 
 For helping herself to her neighbor's corn; 
 
 Many a cowardly cur and hound 
 
 Had been transfi.\cd on her crumpled horn ; 
 
 Many a teapot and old tin pail 
 
 Had the farmer-boys tied to her time-worn tail. 
 
 Old Deacon Grav was a pious man. 
 
 Though sometimes tempted to be profane. 
 
 When many a weary mile he ran 
 
 To drive her out of his growing grairi. 
 
 Sharp were the pranks she used to play 
 
 To get her fill and to get away. 
 
 She knew when the deacon went to town. 
 
 She wisely watched when he went by ; 
 He never passed her without a frown, 
 
 And an evil gleam in each angry eye ; 
 He would crack his whip in a surly way, 
 And drive along in his " one-horse shay." 
 
 Then at his homestead she loved to call, 
 Lifting his bars with crumpled horn ; 
 
 Nimbly scaling his garden wall. 
 Helping herself to his standing corn ; 
 
 Eating his cabbages, one by one, 
 
 Hurrying home when her work was done. 
 
 His human passions were quick to rise. 
 And striding forth with a savage cry. 
 
 With fury blazing from both his eyes 
 As lightnings flash in a summer sky. 
 
 Redder and redder his face would grow, 
 
 And after the creature he would go. 
 
 Over the garden, round and round. 
 
 Breaking his pear and apple crees ; 
 Tramping his melons into the ground, 
 
 Overturning his hives of bees, 
 Leaving him angry and badly stung. 
 Wishing the old cow's neck was wrung. 
 
^'i H- 
 
 442 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The mosses grew on the garden wall, 
 The years went by with their work and play, 
 
 The boys of the village grew strong and tall. 
 And the gray-haired farmers passed away 
 
 One by one, as the red leaves fall ; 
 
 But the highway cow outlived them all. 
 Countryside. 
 
 THE HINDOO'S DEATH. 
 
 i"i 
 
 A Hindoo died ; a happy thing to do. 
 
 When fifty years united to a shrew. 
 
 Released, he hopefully for entrance cries 
 
 Before the gates of IJrahma's paradise. 
 
 " Hast been through purgatory ? " Brahma said. 
 
 " I have been married I " and he hung his head. 
 
 *• Come in I come in I and welcome to my son I 
 
 Marriage and purgatory are as one." 
 
 In bliss extreme he entered heaven's door, 
 
 Ai:d knew the bliss he ne'er had known before. 
 
 He scarce had entered in the gardens fair. 
 
 Another Hindoo asked admission there. 
 
 The self-same question Brahma asked again : 
 
 " Hast been through purgatory ? " " No ; what then ? " 
 
 " Thou canst not enter I did the god reply. 
 
 *' He who went in was there no more than I." 
 
 " All that is true, hut. he has married been, 
 
 And so on earth has suffered for all his sin." 
 
 " Married ? 'T is well, for I 've been married twice." 
 
 " Begone 1 We '11 have no fools in paradise." 
 
 WHY DRINK WINE. 
 
 Si bene commemini causae sunt quinque bibere- 
 Hospitis adventus, pracscns sitis, atque futura, 
 Aut vini bonitas, aut quxlibet altera causa. 
 
 •' 1' 
 
 " If I the reasons well divine, 
 There are just five for drinking wine — 
 Good wine, a friend, or being dry, 
 Or lest you should be by and by, 
 Or — any other reason why." 
 
 Note. — Ascribed by Notes and Queries to Dr. Henry Aldrich, Dean of 
 Christ Church, Oxford, a. d. 1689-1711. 
 
 ■■;■;/ 
 
Aldrich, Dean of 
 
 COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 443 
 
 IMPROVED "ENOCH ARDEN." 
 
 A 
 
 Philip Ray and Enoch Arden 
 IJoth were " spoons " on Annie 
 
 Phil did not fulnl her notion — 
 She preferred to wed with E. 
 
 Lee. 
 
 Him she married and she bore him 
 Pretty little children three ; 
 
 But becoming short of " rhino," 
 Enoch started off for sea, 
 
 Leaving Mrs. Arden mistress 
 Of a well-stocked village shop. 
 
 Selling butter, soap, and treacle. 
 Beeswax, whipcord, lollipop. 
 
 Ten long years she waited for him, 
 But he neither came nor wrote ; 
 
 Therefore she concluded Enoch 
 Could no longer be afloat. 
 
 So when Philip came to ask her 
 If she would be Mrs. Ray, 
 
 She, believing herself widowed, 
 Could not say her suitor nay. 
 
 So a second time she married, 
 
 Gave up selling bread and cheese - 
 
 And in due time Philip nursed 
 A little Ray upon his knees. 
 
 But, alas ! the long-lost Enoch 
 
 Turn'd up unexpectedly, 
 And was vastly disconcerted 
 
 At this act of bigamy. 
 
 But on thinking o'er the matter, 
 
 He determined to atone 
 For his lengthen'd absence from her 
 
 By just leaving well alone. 
 
 So he took to bed and dwindled 
 Down to something like a shade ; 
 
 Settled with his good landlady, 
 Then the debt of nature paid. 
 
 « 
 
 ! i 
 
 \ 
 
■\.^ ' 
 
 (■■ ■* 
 
 444 
 
 TI/E HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And when both the Rays discovered 
 How poor Enoch's life had ended, 
 
 They came down in handsome manner, 
 And gave his corpse a fun'ral splendid. 
 
 f|\i \ 1 - ; 
 
 •j -b' 
 
 tl 
 
 This is all I know about it. 
 
 If it 's not sufficient, write 
 By next mail to Alfred Tcnny 
 
 son, M. P., Isle of Wight. 
 
 MARCH. 
 
 "b< 
 
 I 
 
 A SODDEN gray in the chilly dawn, 
 
 A burst of the red gold sun at noon ; 
 A windy lea for the dying day, 
 
 And a wail at dusk like the distant loon ; 
 A ghost at night in the leafless larch, 
 A sigh and a moan. 
 And this is March. 
 
 A frown in the morning black and dim ; 
 A smile when the day is half-way run ; 
 A moan when the wind comes up from the sea, 
 And tosses the larch when the day is done. 
 A penitent, changeful, grewsome thing. 
 Is this fierce love child 
 Of winter and spring. 
 
 < 1 
 
 It is mad with the love of an unloved one, 
 
 It is chill with the winters that long have set ; 
 It is sad at times and anon it laughs, 
 And is warm with the summer tliat is not yet. 
 And its voice laughs loud in the leafless larch. 
 But to sigh again, 
 And this is Muixh. 
 
 th- 
 
 A dose of quinine when the sun comes up 
 
 From its tossed-up bed in the eastern sea ; 
 Some castor-oil when the moon has sped, 
 A blue pill dark and catnip tea ; 
 A decoction made from the leafless larch, 
 And another blue pill, 
 And this is March. 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH. 445 
 
 THE MAD, MAD MUSE. 
 
 (After Swinhurne.) 
 
 Out on the margin of moonshine land, 
 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs, 
 
 Out where the whing-whang loves to stand, 
 
 Writing his name with his tail on the sand, 
 
 And wipes it out with his oogerish hand ; 
 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. 
 
 Is it the gibber of gungs and keeks ? 
 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. 
 Or what is the sound the whing-whang seeks, 
 Crouching low by winding creeks, 
 And holding his breath for weeks and weeks? 
 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. 
 
 \ 
 
 
 Anoint him the wealthiest of wr^ithy things I 
 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome riljs. 
 'T is a fair whing-whangess with phosphor rings, 
 And bridal jewels of fangs and stings. 
 And she sits and as sadly and softly sings, 
 As the mildewed whir of her own dead wings ; 
 Tickle me, dear ; tickle mo here ; 
 Tickle me, love, in these lonesome ribs. 
 
 Robert J. Burdette. 
 
 A GIRL'S A GIRL FOR A 'THAT. 
 
 Is there a lady in the land 
 That boasts her rank and a' that ? 
 
 With scornful eye we pass her by, 
 And little care for a that : 
 
 For Nature's charm shall bear the palm,— 
 A girl 's a girl for a' that, 
 
 What though her neck with gems she deck, 
 
 With folly's gear and a' that, 
 And gayly ride in pomp and pride ? 
 
 We can dispense with a' that : 
 An honest heart acts no such part,— 
 
 A girl 's a girl for a' that. 
 
 
446 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 The nobly born may proudly scorn 
 
 A lowly lasa and a' that ; 
 A jirctty face has far more grace 
 
 Than' haughty looks and a' that ; 
 A bonnie maid needs no such aid, — 
 
 A girl 's a girl for a' that. 
 
 Then let us tn'.it that come it must, 
 And sure it will for a' that, 
 
 When faith and love, all arts above, 
 Shall reign supreme and a* that ; 
 
 And every youth confess the truth, — 
 A ^irl 's a girl for u' that. 
 
 OUT WEST. 
 
 . '., L 
 
 I HEAR thee speak of a Western land, 
 Thou callest its children a wide-awake band — 
 Father, oh, where is that favored spot "i 
 Shall we not seek it and build us a cot ? 
 Is it where the hills of Herkshire stand. 
 Whence the honey comes already canned ? 
 Not there, not there, my child I 
 
 Is it far away in the Empire State, 
 Where Horace Greeley feels first-rate, 
 Where the people arc ruled by Tammany ring. 
 And Mr. Fisk is a railway king. 
 With two thousand men at his command. 
 Besides a boat with a big brass band ? 
 Not there, not there, my child I 
 
 Is it where the little pigs grow great 
 In the fertile vales of the Huckeye State, 
 And get so fat on acorns and meal 
 That they sell every bit of them, all but the squeal, 
 Where the butchers have such a plenty of hogs 
 That they don't make sausages out of dogs? 
 Not there, not there, my child I 
 
 Or is it where they fortunes make. 
 Where they've got a tunnel under the lake, 
 Where the stores are full of wheat and corn. 
 And divorces are plenty, as sure as you *re born, 
 Where Long J"hn Wentworth is right on hand, — 
 Is it there, dear father, tliat Western land? 
 Not there, not there, ujy child ! 
 
 '!i 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY, EPITAPH, 447 
 
 Is it in the dominions of Brigham Young, 
 The most married man that is left unhung, 
 Where every man that likes can go, 
 And get forty wives or more, you know, 
 Where " saints " are plenty with " cheeks " sublime, — 
 Can that be the gay and festive clime ? 
 Not there, not there, my child I 
 
 Is it where Nevada's mountains rise 
 From the alkali i)lains which we all despise, 
 Where a man may beg, or borrow, or steal, 
 Yet he often will fail to get a sciuarc meal, 
 Where the rocks arc full of silver ore, — 
 Is it there wc 'II find that Western shore ? 
 Not there, not there, my child I 
 
 Eye hath not seen it, my verdant youth, 
 Tongue cannot name it and speak the truth ; 
 For though you go to the farthest State, 
 And stand on the rocks by the Golden Gate, 
 They '11 point you across the western sea, 
 To the land wncnce cometh the " heathen Chinee," 
 Saying — *"T is there, my child." 
 
 BRANDY AND SODA. 
 (After Swinburne.) 
 
 Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling thickly, 
 
 My tongue feels a mouthful and more, 
 My senses are sluggish and sickly. 
 
 To live and to breathe is a bore. 
 My head weighs a ton and a quarter 
 
 liy pains and by pangs ever split. 
 Which manifold washings with water 
 
 Relieve not a bit. 
 
 My longings of thirst are unlawful. 
 
 And vain to console or control, , 
 The aroma of coffee is awful, 
 
 Repulsive the sight of the roll. 
 I take my matutinal journal, 
 
 And strive my dull wits to engage, 
 But cannot endure the infernal 
 
 Sharp crack of its page. 
 
 What bad luck my soul had bedevilled. 
 What demon of spleen and of spite, 
 
 That I rashly went forth and I revelled 
 In riotous living last night? 
 
 1 
 
 i 
 
448 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 Had the fumes of the goblet no odor 
 That well might repulse or restrain ? 
 
 O insidious brandy and soda, 
 Our Lady of Pain I 
 
 \'A i\ 
 
 Thou art golden of gleam as the summer 
 
 That smiled o'er a tropical sod, 
 O daughter of Bacchus, the bummer, 
 
 A foamer, a volatile tod ! 
 But thy froth is a serpent that hisses. 
 
 And thy gold as a balefire doth shine. 
 And the lovers who rise from thy kisses 
 
 Can't walk a straight line. 
 
 H 
 
 t, 
 
 *^:U! 
 
 I recall with a flush and a flutter 
 
 That orgy whose end is unknown ; 
 Did they bear me to bed on a shutter. 
 
 Or did I reel home all alone ? 
 Was I frequent in screams and in screeches ? 
 
 Did I swear with a forced affright ? 
 Did I perpetrate numerous speeches ? 
 
 Did I get in a fight ? 
 
 Of the secrets I treasure and prize most 
 
 Did I empty my bacchanal breast ? 
 Did I buttonhole men I despise most. 
 
 And frown upon those I like best ? 
 Did I play the low farmer and flunky 
 
 With people I always ignore ? 
 Did I caracole round like a monkey? 
 
 Did I sit on the flo'^'- ? 
 
 O longing no research may satiate — 
 
 No aim to exhun;e what is hid ! 
 For falsehood were vain to expatiate 
 
 On deeds more depia/ed than I did ; 
 And though friendly faith I would flout not, 
 
 On this it were rasn to rely, 
 Since the friends who beheld me, I doubt not, 
 
 Were drunker than I. 
 
 (.! 
 
 Thou hast lured me to passionate pastime. 
 
 Dread goddess, whose smile is a snare! 
 Yet I swear thou h ist tempted me the last time — 
 
 1 swear it ; I mean what I swear I 
 And thy beaker shall always forebode a 
 
 Disgust 't were not wise to disdain, 
 O luxurious brandy and soda, 
 
 Our Lady of Pain I 
 
 Hugh Howard. 
 
 I y 
 
COMEDY, BURLESQUE, PARODY^ EPITAPH. 449 
 
 THAT AMATEUR FLUTE. 
 
 (After Poe.) i 
 
 Hear the fluter with his flute — 
 Silver flute, 
 Oh, what a world of wailing is awakened by its toot I 
 How it demi-semi quavers 
 
 On the maddened air of night ! 
 And defieth all endeavors 
 
 To escape the sound or sight 
 Of the flute, flute, flute. 
 With its tootle, tootle, toot — 
 With reiterated tooings of exasperating toots. 
 The long protracted tootelings of agonizing toots 
 Of the flute, flute, flute, flute. 
 Flute, flute, flute, 
 And the wheezings and the spittings of its toot. 
 
 Should he get that other flute — 
 Golden flute — 
 What a deep anguish will its presence institoot ! 
 How his eyes to heaven he *11 raise 
 
 As he plays, all the days ! 
 How he 'II stop us on our ways 
 
 With its praise ! 
 And the peo])lc, oh, the people 
 That don't live up in the steeple, 
 But inhabit Christian parlors 
 Where he visiteth and plays — 
 Where he plays, plays, plays, 
 In the crudest of ways. 
 And thinks we ought to listen, 
 
 And expects us to be mute 
 Who would rather have an ear-ache 
 Than the music of his flute — 
 Of his flute, flute, flute, 
 And the tooings of its toot — 
 Of the toos wherewith he tooteleth the agonizing toot. 
 Of the flute, flewt. fluit, floot, 
 Phlute, ])hlevvt, phlcvvght. 
 And the tootle-tootle-tootle-tooing of its toot. 
 
 POKER. 
 
 luGH Howard. 
 
 To draw, or not to draw, that is the question. 
 Whether it is safer in the player to take 
 The awful risk of skinning for a straight, 
 Or, standing pat, to raise *em all the limit. 
 29 
 
45° 
 
 
 THE HUMBLER POETS. 
 
 And thus, by bluffing, get it. To draw — to skin j 
 No more — and by that skin to get a full, 
 Or two pairs, or the fattest bouncing kings 
 That luck is heir to — 't is a consummation 
 Devoutly to be wished. To draw — to skin ; 
 To skin ! perchance to burst — ay, there 's the rub 
 For in the draw of three what cards may come, 
 When we have shuftied off the uncertain pack, 
 Must give us pause. There 's the respect 
 That makes calamity of a bobtail flush ; 
 For who would bear the overwhelming blind. 
 The reckless straddle, the wait on the edge, 
 The insolence of pat hands, and the lifts 
 That patient merit of the bluffer takes, 
 When he himself might be much better off 
 By simply passing ? Who would trays uphold. 
 And go out on a small progressive raise, 
 But that the dread of something after call. 
 The undiscovered ace-full, to whose strength 
 Such hands must bow, puzzles the will. 
 And makes us rather keep the chips we have 
 Than be curious about the hands we know not of. 
 Thus bluffing does make cowards of us all. 
 And thus the native hue of a four-heart flush 
 Is sicklied with some dark and cussed club, 
 And speculators in a jack-pot's wealth 
 With this regard their interest turn awry 
 And lose the right to open. 
 
 ALL THE SAME IN THE END. 
 
 (Epitaph in the Homersfield, Eng., Churchyard.) 
 
 ^ "M' t' 
 
 As I walked by myself I talked to myself, 
 
 And thus myself said unto me : 
 " Look to thyself and take care of thyself, 
 
 For nobody cares for thee." 
 So I turned to myself and I answered myself 
 
 In the self-same reverie : 
 " Look to thyself or not to thyself, 
 
 The self-same thing it will be." 
 
- to skin ; 
 
 on 
 
 kin; 
 
 's the rub ! 
 
 come, 
 
 pack, 
 
 :t 
 
 lind, 
 
 Ige, 
 
 iphold, 
 
 11, 
 ngth 
 
 have 
 
 iw not of. 
 
 ill, 
 
 lush 
 
 ub, 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 ND. 
 
 URCHYARD.) 
 
 5elf, 
 self, 
 myself 
 
 i^ 
 
I 
 
 m 
 
 ^^ 
 
 Hi.:*' 
 
 il 
 
 ■t 
 
 4 
 
 ' '4 I 
 
 li 
 
 ■»?:!. 
 
 M 
 
 
 J 
 
 H 
 
 >■■• t 
 
 K 
 
 ill! 
 
 »!i' 
 
 r 
 
 ill 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A baby's boot and a skein of wool 174 
 
 A barefooted cliild on the crossing 382 
 
 A bit of ground, a smell of earth . fiS 
 A busy dream, forgotten ere it 
 
 fades 10 
 
 A cloud came over a land of leaves 120 
 
 A dainty, delicate swallow-feather o'j 
 A dubious, strange, uncompre- 
 
 hended life 280 
 
 A Hindoo died; a happy thing to 
 
 do 442 
 
 A little elbow leans upon y ' 
 
 knee 225 
 
 A little peach in the orchard grew 428 
 A little Pull- Back sought one 
 
 day 433 
 
 A little stream had lost its way . 29 
 
 A lover gave the wedding ring . . 151 
 
 A maiden once, of certain age . . 431 
 A narrow home, but very still it 
 
 reemeth 316 
 
 A pair of very chubby legs ... 41 
 A poor little bird trilled a song in 
 
 the west 385 
 
 A Rabbi once, by all admired . . 432 
 
 A sodden gray in the chilly dawn . 444 
 
 A song for the girl I love . . . 156 
 
 A whisper woke the air ... . 367 
 
 Across in my neighbor's window . 61 
 
 Across the heath and down the hill 137 
 
 Across the pathway, myrtle-fringed 149 
 Across the rapid stream of seventy 
 
 years 277 
 
 " Aim not too high at things be- 
 yond thy reach " 217 
 
 Alas I how hardly things go right I 360 
 Amid the myriad troubles that meet 
 
 us day by day 239 
 
 And this is the end of it all 1 . . 356 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Apron on and dash in hand . . . 391 
 As I walked by myself I talked to 
 
 myself 450 
 
 As sailors watch from their prison 167 
 
 two proud ships upon the path- 
 
 'ess main s^o 
 
 -iunt Nellie had fashioned a dainty 
 
 thing 70 
 
 Beautiful snow I Beautiful snow I 370 
 Beside the River of Tears, with 
 
 branches low 320 
 
 Beyond the light-house, standing 
 
 sentinel 158 
 
 Billy 's dead and jone to glory . . 330 
 Bleak winds of the winter, sobbing 
 
 and moaning 367 
 
 Bounding like a football .... 44 
 
 Boy .......... 439 
 
 Bright-faced maiden, bright-souled 
 
 maiden 251 
 
 Bring him not here, where our 
 
 sainted feet 305 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain . . 310 
 By the flow of the inland river . . 413 
 By the merest chance, in the twi- 
 light gloom 126 
 
 By thine own soul's law learn to 
 
 live 302 
 
 Christ died for all ; and on the 
 
 hearts of all 82 
 
 Clowns are capering in motley . . 341 
 Cold I so cold ! and the night looks 
 
 down 3C3 
 
 Come, my wife, put down the 
 
 Bible 182 
 
 Comes little Maud and stands by 
 
 my knee 47 
 
 Come to the home of the friendly 
 
 mosquito 439 
 
:f4' 
 
 '■'i 
 
 }ii 
 
 in 
 
 454 
 
 INDEX OP FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACE 
 
 " Corporal Green ! " the orderly 
 
 cried 406 
 
 Cousin Edward, what do these 
 
 scientists mean 437 
 
 Dear ole untie, I dot oor letter . 46 
 
 Death sent his messengers before . 308 
 
 De massa ob de shcepfol' . . . 205 
 
 Diogenes, surly and proud . ■ . 42 1 
 
 l)o I love her? 133 
 
 Do you hear the scandal-mongers 390 
 Do you remember, when we came 
 
 from school 326 
 
 Doth Life survive the touch of 
 
 Death? 314 
 
 Draw down thy curtains close, O 
 
 heart I 136 
 
 Dru as I leev, most efry day . . 6a 
 Each life has one grand day : the 
 
 clouds may lie 236 
 
 Each thin hand resting on a grave 412 
 
 Elswitha knitteth the stocking blue 203 
 
 Evening was falling, cold and dark 63 
 
 Far away under skies of blue . . 106 
 
 Fleet-flyinggem, of burnishedcrest 94 
 
 Fold ye the ice-cold hands ... 312 
 Forever and ever the reddening 
 
 leaves 180 
 
 Friendship doth bind, with pleas- 
 ant ties 161 
 
 Friendship needs no studied 
 
 phrases 160 
 
 From morn till noon the golden 
 
 glow 336 
 
 From saffron to yellow, from purple 
 
 to gray m 
 
 From the elm-tree's topmost bough gi 
 
 Git yo' pardners, fust kwattilion ! 435 
 
 Give me a man with an aim . . 240 
 God hath so many ships upon the 
 
 sea 322 
 
 Goldenhair climbed upon grand- 
 papa's knee ! 58 
 
 Golden head so lowly bending . . 53 
 Good-night, dear friend 1 I say 
 
 good-night to thee 358 
 
 Grandmamma sits in her quaint 
 
 arm-chair 59 
 
 Have you heard of Santa Rita ? . 154 
 Heads that think and hearts that 
 
 feel 247 
 
 Hear the fluter with his flute . . 449 
 
 He does well who does his best . 272 
 
 He left a load of anthracite . . . 301 
 He preached but little; argued less 401 
 
 He stole from my bodice a rose . 152 
 
 PACE 
 
 He that holds fast the golden mean 266 
 
 Her eyes were bright and merry . 153 
 
 Her lips were so near 154 
 
 Here is my hand 250 
 
 " Here rests in God." 'T is all we 
 
 read 319 
 
 Here, you, policeman, just step 
 
 inside 334 
 
 His hand at last ! By his own fin- 
 gers writ 360 
 
 How do we know what hearts have 
 
 vilest sin ? 394 
 
 How fair thou art, O little book . 430 
 
 "How many miles to Baby-land ? " 37 
 
 How peacefully the sunlight fell . 116 
 How prone we are to hide and 
 
 hoard 193 
 
 Ho^should I choose to walk the 
 
 world with thee 118 
 
 How strong they are, those subtile 
 
 spells 104 
 
 " How 's your father ? " came the 
 
 whisper 438 
 
 How tired one grows of a rainy day 173 
 
 Human hopes and human creeds . 160 
 
 am dying, Egypt, dying I ... 143 
 
 believe if I should die . . . . 128 
 cannot check my thought these 
 
 days 175 
 
 can see you V« a gentleman ; 
 
 time has been 332 
 
 count my treasures o'er with care 81 
 
 dare not ask a kisse 153 
 
 dreamed that we were lovers still 131 
 
 haf a vunny leedle poy . ... 62 
 
 hear her rocking the baby . . 229 
 hear thee speak of a Western 
 
 land 446 
 
 hold him great who for love's 
 
 sake 255 
 
 hold it better far that one should 
 
 rule 348 
 
 hold that we are wrong to seek . 157 
 know a duke; well, let him 
 
 pass 424 
 
 know that deep within your heart 
 
 of hearts 210 
 
 lay my finger on Time's wrist to 
 
 score 283 
 
 live for those who love me . . 277 
 note this morning how the sun- 
 shine falleth 270 
 
 read to her, one summer day . . 434 
 
 see her where the budding May up 
 
 seldom ponder the " future life " 317 
 
PAGB 
 
 le golden mean 2fi6 
 It and merry . 1 53 
 
 ir 54 
 
 250 
 
 I." 'T is all we 
 
 3«9 
 
 nan, just step 
 
 334 
 
 By his own fin- 
 
 360 
 
 liat hearts have 
 
 294 
 
 little book . 430 
 to Baby-land?" 37 
 : sunlight fell . 116 
 e to hide and 
 
 iQa 
 
 ose to walk the 
 
 ii8 
 
 re, those subtile 
 
 104 
 
 »er?" came the 
 
 ...... 438 
 
 vs of a rainy day 173 
 
 human creeds . 160 
 , dying! ... 143 
 Id die .... 128 
 y thought tiiese 
 
 ...... 175 
 
 f a gentleman ; 
 
 332 
 
 es o'er with care 81 
 isse 153 
 
 were lovers still 131 
 le poy .... 62 
 
 the baby . . 229 
 k of a Western 
 
 446 
 
 who for love's 
 255 
 
 that one should 
 348 
 
 wrong to seek . 157 
 well, let him 
 
 424 
 
 Ivithin your heart 
 
 210 
 
 Time's wrist to 
 283 
 
 o love me . . 277 
 
 ig how the sun- 
 
 270 
 
 summer day . . 434 
 
 e budding May 190 
 
 he " future life " 3>7 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 455 
 
 PAGE 
 96 
 
 ( send thee pansies while the year 
 
 is young 
 
 I stood and watched my ships go 
 
 out 350 
 
 I think till I weary with thinking . 30J 
 I told my secret to the sweet wild 
 
 roses i3''> 
 
 I wants a piece of talito .... s,i 
 
 I wants to mend my wagon ... 52 
 " I was born in Indiany," says a 
 
 stranger lank and slim ... 227 
 I was not patient in that olden 
 
 time 265 
 
 I was takin' off my bonnet . . . 425 
 
 I wonder now if any one . ... 6; 
 
 I wud knot dye in wintur . . . 427 
 I wus mighty good-lookin' when I 
 
 wus young • 433 
 
 I *m hastening from the distant hills 109 
 I 'm thankful that the sun and 
 
 moon 437 
 
 1 'se a poor little sorrowful baby . 45 
 
 I 've got him, at last, in the focus . 43S 
 
 If all our life were one broad glare . 238 
 If I could frame for you in cunning 
 
 words 2:1 
 
 If I could see with a midge's eye . 290 
 
 If I had known in the morning . 223 
 
 If I should die to-night .... 309 
 
 If I the reasons well divine . . . 442 
 If light should strike through every 
 
 darkened ]>lace 129 
 
 If some great angel spoke to me 
 
 to-night 2(n 
 
 If the world seems cool to you . . 253 
 If this were all — oh! if this were 
 
 all 25'-. 
 
 If thou dost bid thy friend farewell 353 
 
 If we knew the woe and heart-nche 207 
 
 In search from A to Z they passed 72 
 In silence mighty things are 
 
 ^v^ought 238 
 
 In spring, when branches of wood- 
 bine ini 
 
 In the best chamber of the house 194 
 In the Diamond Shaft worked 
 
 Gentleman Jim 400 
 
 In the old and ruined mansion . 171 
 In the rush of the merry morning 77 
 In the smoke of my dear cigarito . 421 
 In the soft falling twilight ... 57 
 Into all lives some rain must fall . 304 
 Is it parting with the roundness . 208 
 '• Is it tnie ? " — that 's the doubt- 
 ful suggestion 142 
 
 pa(;b 
 Is it true, then, my girl? did you 
 
 mean it 141 
 
 Is l()v° contagious? — I don't know 153 
 
 Is the house turned topsy-turvy ? , 54 
 
 Is tli'jre a lady in the i tnd . . . 445 
 
 Is the road very dreary ? . . . . 261 
 
 It wns an English .summer day . yyy 
 Just ruad this letter, old friend of 
 
 mine 37S 
 
 King Frederick, of Prussia, grew 
 
 nLTVnus and ill 351 
 
 I.amar and his Rangers camped at 
 
 dawn 79 
 
 Lay me low, my work is done . . 313 
 Lean closer, darling, let thy tender 
 
 ht-art 357 
 
 Learn to wait — life's hardest les- 
 son 240 
 
 " Let earth give thanks," the dea- 
 con said 256 
 
 Life liath its barren years . . . 235 
 Life is a burden to every one's 
 
 shoulder 249 
 
 Listening, yearning 246 
 
 Listen to the water-mill .... 3^5 
 
 List to a tale well worth the ear . 422 
 
 Lo, by Nilus' languid waters . . 147 
 
 Long ago a poet dreaming ... 26 
 
 Long years ago I wandered here . iSo 
 
 Love came a beggar to her gate . 125 
 Love, give me one of thy dear 
 
 hands to hold 1S2 
 
 Magdalena's robes are trailing . . 244 
 
 Make me a headbonrd, mister . . 329 
 
 Marjorie, with the w.iiting face . i<>i 
 Midget, gypsy, big-eyed elf, little 
 
 Kilty Clover 69 
 
 Millions of massive rain-drops . . 108 
 Mine eyes to mine eyelids cling 
 
 thickly 447 
 
 Mo7.7.cr bought a baby .... 39 
 
 My cigarette! The amulet . . . 214 
 My dear, be sensible ! Upon my 
 
 word 130 
 
 .My friend, my chum, my trusty 
 
 crony! 161 
 
 My lieirt and I but lately were at 
 
 strife 267 
 
 My little nioce and I — I read . . 65 
 
 My ma 's boon working very hard 54 
 ""News to the king, good news for 
 
 all!" 41s 
 
 No! no! I don't defend him . . 39a 
 Nothing at all in the paper to- 
 
 d.iyl 38r 
 
456 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 
 \r 
 
 ii'll !* Ill 
 
 *■ '■■¥ .1- 
 
 PAGE 
 
 " Nouglit to be done," eh ? It was 
 
 tliat he snitl i^(> 
 
 " Now I lay," — repeat it, darling 53 
 
 Now umo yonder wood-pile go . 439 
 O u.wadful Memory I why dost 
 
 thou tread i''iS 
 
 Oh, darn it all t — afeared of her . 135 
 
 0\\ for a breath o' the moorlands . 219 
 Oh for a lodge in a garden of 
 
 cucumbers ! 426 
 
 Oh, haiuiting dreams of a sweet 
 
 summer dead ! 115 
 
 Oh! let the soid its slumber break 279 
 Oh, list the boat-horn's wild re- 
 frain 177 
 
 Oh! merry is the Madrepore that 
 
 sits beside the sea 435 
 
 Oh! the quietest home on earth 
 
 had I 43 
 
 Oh the snow, the bejiutiful snow . 371 
 
 Oh the wonder of our life . . . 287 
 Oh, thoughts that go in with the 
 
 stitclies 226 
 
 Oh, touch that rosebud I it will 
 
 bloom 136 
 
 Oh, yes, we mean all kind words 
 
 that we say 156 
 
 O little bird ! sing sweet among 
 
 the leaves 02 
 
 O memories of green and pleasant 
 
 places 168 
 
 O star on the breast of the river I 97 
 O strange sweet loveliness! O 
 
 tender grace 127 
 
 O'er the sunlit hills of Berkshire , 410 
 Old Time and I the other night . 440 
 Once in the days of old .... 132 
 Once more we stand with half- 
 reluctant feet 85 
 
 Once Venus, deeming Love too fat 431 
 
 One by one the old-time fancies . 170 
 
 One stormy morn I chanced to meet 138 
 
 Only a baby's rattle 48 
 
 Only a baby 'thout any hair . . 39 
 Only a man dead in his bed — 
 
 that is all! 3S7 
 
 Only a rose in a glass 99 
 
 Only a woman, shrivelled and 
 
 old! 370 
 
 Only one moment unfettered by 
 
 care 373 
 
 Our Daisy lay down 44 
 
 Out of the clover and blue-eyed 
 
 grass 405 
 
 Out of the mists of childhood . . 78 
 
 PACB 
 
 Out on the margin of moonshine 
 
 '•""> 445 
 
 Out, out in the night, in the chill 
 
 wintry nir 391 
 
 Over my soul the great thoughts 
 
 roll 140 
 
 Over the telegraph wires . . . 384 
 Over the threshold a gallant new- 
 comer 86 
 
 Over the west the glory dies away 203 
 
 P.illid white the moonlight gloweth 366 
 
 Patter! patter! running feet I . '. 129 
 
 I'hilip Kay and Enoch Arden . . 443 
 
 Play on! play on I As softly glides 213 
 
 Poet, sit and sin^ to me .... 34 
 
 Prithee, tell me, Dimi<le Chin . . 123 
 
 Prop ycr eyes wide open, Jiiey . 340 
 Rest in the grave I but rest is for 
 
 the weary 315 
 
 " Rock of Ages, cleft for me " . . 305 
 
 Rose dreamed she was a lily . , io3 
 Searching for strawberries ready 
 
 to eat 393 
 
 .She always stood upon the steps . 50 
 She folded up the worn and mended 
 
 frock 358 
 
 She makes no moan ab jve her 
 
 faded flowers 271 
 
 She stood at the bar of justice . . 3S8 
 
 She stood at the clumsy loom . . 285 
 
 Sitting here by my desk all day . 384 
 
 Slowly, steadily, under the moon . 291 
 Small boy Bertie drunming 0.1 the 
 
 pane 66 
 
 So are tlie stars and the arching 
 
 skies 33 
 
 Somebody's heart is gay .... 281 
 Some find Love Lite, some find him 
 
 soon 123 
 
 Some find work where £otne find 
 
 rest 282 
 
 Some love the glow of outward 
 
 show 273 
 
 Some quick and bitter words we 
 
 said 140 
 
 Some sings of the lily, and daisy, 
 
 and rose 105 
 
 Sometimes I smile, sometimes I 
 
 sigh 38< 
 
 Sometimes — not often — when the 
 
 days are long 163 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons 
 
 have been learned 234 
 
 Somewhere, out on the blue seas 
 
 sailing '337 
 
INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 457 
 
 PACE 
 
 of moonshine 
 
 445 
 
 t, in the chill 
 
 39' 
 
 ;reat thoughts 
 
 140 
 
 nres ... 384 
 a gallant new- 
 
 86 
 
 cry dies away 202 
 
 nlight glowclh 366 
 
 ning feet I . '. 129 
 
 ch Arden . . 443 
 
 \& softly glides 312 
 
 I me ... . 34 
 
 ni|ilc Chin . . 123 
 
 open, Joey . 34° 
 but rest is for 
 
 3'S 
 
 ft for me •' . . 305 
 ^as a lily . . «o8 
 A'berries ready 
 
 393 
 
 1011 the steps . 50 
 )rn and mended 
 
 258 
 
 an ab ive her 
 ...... 271 
 
 r of justice . . 3^8 
 imsy loom . . 285 
 desk all day . 384 
 der the moon . 291 
 amining Oii the 
 
 .... 66 
 
 id the arching 
 
 .... 32 
 
 gay .... 281 
 
 :, some find him 
 
 .... 123 
 
 lerc .;ime find 
 
 .... 282 
 
 )w of outward 
 
 . . . . 272 
 
 Itter words we 
 
 . . . . 140 
 
 ily, and daisy, 
 
 los 
 
 sometimes I 
 
 2F 
 
 ten — when the 
 
 163 
 
 11 life's lessons 
 
 ;d 234 
 
 I the blue seas 
 ... -237 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Spread a feast with choicest viands 144 
 Stay with me, Poesy! playmate 
 
 of childhood ! 23 
 
 Still are the bliips that in haven 
 
 ride 238 
 
 Such bsautiful, beautiful hands ! , 221 
 Sweetheart, good-by 1 The flutter- 
 ing sail 361 
 
 Sweet l.idy, let your lids unclose . 98 
 Take for your hero some thorough- 
 bred scamp 32 
 
 T.ilking of sects till lato one eve . 296 
 Teach you French ? 1 will, my 
 
 dear! 134 
 
 Tears of gold the heavens wept . io<; 
 
 The banks are all a bustin', Nance 267 
 The birds no more in dooryard 
 
 trees are singin;; 343 
 
 The blessed hush of eventide . . 373 
 The bluest gray — the gr.iyest blue 117 
 The chimes, the chimes of Mother- 
 land 294 
 
 The clock strikes seven in the hall 55 
 
 The course of the weariest river . 325 
 
 The crimson sunset faded into gray 356 
 The dairy-maid pensively milked 
 
 the goat 439 
 
 The Eastern wizards do a wondrous 
 
 thing , . 415 
 
 The fairest flower upon the vine . 15S 
 
 The fire in the west burns low . . 213 
 
 The glamour of the after-light . . 199 
 The great Pacific journey I have 
 
 done 426 
 
 The hands are such dear hands . 193 
 The hue of her hide was dusky 
 
 brown 440 
 
 The kindly words that rise within 
 
 the heart 3> 
 
 The king from the council chamber 30 
 
 The lazy, languid breezes sweep . 150 
 The long lines stretched from west 
 
 to east 96 
 
 The Lord, who fashioned my hands 
 
 for working 243 
 
 The maid, as by the papers doth 
 
 appear 430 
 
 The needles have dropped from her 
 
 nerveless hands 84 
 
 The night has a thousand eyes . 125 
 The niglit hours wane, the bleak 
 
 winds of December .... 175 
 
 The noble river widens as we drift 321 
 The oak is a strong and stalwart 
 
 tree 78 
 
 PAGB 
 
 The old man sits in his easy-chair 29O 
 'I'he orchard-lands of Long Ago! . 191 
 The orchards that climb the hill- 
 sides 101 
 
 The par:ton goes about his daily 
 
 ways 323 
 
 The pastor sits in liis easy-chair . iS3 
 The Reverend Kliab Eliezer . . 2>>j 
 The roiid w.is straight, the after- 
 noon was gray 266 
 
 The royal feast was done ; the king 300 
 The sea at theciag's base bright- 
 ens 222 
 
 The sea crashed over the grim gray 
 
 rocks 290 
 
 The setting sun, with dying beams 348 
 
 The singer stood in a blaze of light 2j8 
 
 The sunlight on a waveless sea . 199 
 The supper is over, the hearth is 
 
 swept 220 
 
 The wet wind sobs o'er the sodden 
 
 leas 365 
 
 The woodland, and the golden 
 
 wedge 10; 
 
 The work of the sun is slow . . 255 
 The world is ever as we t.ike it . 233 
 "The world is ver>' beautiful ! " I 
 
 said 3$ 
 
 The year begins. I turn the leaf . 87 
 The yellow death came stealing . 343 
 The yellow-hammer came to build 
 
 his nest 95 
 
 There are days of silent sorrow . 263 
 There are sounds in the sky when 
 
 the year grows old 82 
 
 There came to port last Sunday 
 
 night 41 
 
 There comes a month in the weary 
 
 year 115 
 
 There dawn dear memories of the 
 
 past 169 
 
 There in her high-b.icked chair 
 
 she sits 202 
 
 There is a rainbow in the sky . . loS 
 There is one spot on all the earth 172 
 There '3 a jolly Saxon proverb • . 423 
 There 's many a rest on the road 
 
 of life 254 
 
 There 's no use of your talking, for 
 
 mamma told me so ... . 38 
 There was a rose-bush in a garden 
 
 growing 97 
 
 They come in the quiet twilight 
 
 hour 200 
 
 They sit in the winter gloaming . 211 
 
-,'■ - 
 
 I : i 
 
 la 
 
 458 
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACE 
 
 They soon grow old who grope for 
 
 geld 290 
 
 Tliey stood above the world . . 130 
 Things has come to a pretty pass . 159 
 This grave were ye nieanin', 
 
 stranger? 33s 
 
 This mortal body that I wear , . 2 80 
 This year — next year — sometime 
 
 — never 1^4 
 
 Thou dark-robed man with solemn 
 
 pace . 113 
 
 Thou hast diamonds and pearls of 
 
 rare beauty 154 
 
 Thou hast not gold ? Why, this is 
 
 gold 
 
 Time to me this truth hath taught 
 Tired I Well, what of that ? . . 
 'T is home where'er the heart is . 
 " 'l is really time you were out, I 
 
 think" 
 
 'T is the golden gleam of an autumn 
 
 day . 
 
 To draw, or not to draw, th.it is the 
 
 question 
 
 To touch a broken lute .... 
 
 *T was but a breath 
 
 T was midnight ; not a sound was 
 
 heard 69 
 
 'T was near the break of day, but 
 
 still 
 
 'T was springtime of the day and 
 
 year 
 
 Two little ones, grown tired of 
 
 play. .r(R 
 
 Up in early morning lic;ht . . . 224 
 Upon a mountain height, far from 
 
 the sea 108 
 
 Upon life's highway I was hasten- 
 ing W- 
 
 Upon the brown and frozen sod . 1 10 
 Was it a lie th.U they told me . . 307 
 Was the parting very bitter? . . 241 
 Wave by wave o'er the sandy 
 
 bar aSi 
 
 We asked where the magic came 
 
 fr"m 57 
 
 We cnn only live once : and death's 
 
 terrors 289 
 
 Wc die not at .ill, for our deeds 
 
 remain 336 
 
 We gra'»p a hand, we think it true 
 
 and strong 264 
 
 We just shake hands at meeting . ifia 
 We meet 'ne.uh the sounding rafter 409 
 We say it for an hour or for years 355 
 
 »S7 
 
 24S 
 
 2<K) 
 
 218 
 
 68 
 
 440 
 aUO 
 3^-7 
 
 407 
 
 124 
 
 PACK 
 
 We slight the gifls that every 
 
 season bears 280 
 
 We two will stand in the shadow 
 
 here 350 
 
 Well, Mary, me darlint, I 'm 
 
 landed at last 42^ 
 
 Well, wife, 1 've found the model 
 
 church! 299 
 
 Well, young 'un, you're mighty 
 
 smooth spokeix 33S 
 
 What care I for the tempest ? . . 140 
 What did the baby come for? . . 73 
 What did the baby go for ? . . . 74 
 
 Wlwtislife? 277 
 
 What is 'he life of man ? A passing 
 
 shade 2S8 
 
 What si all I wish thee for the 
 
 comin,^year? 162 
 
 What ? Sho' I You don't I Do you 
 
 mean it, though ? 394 
 
 When brothers leave the old 
 
 hearthstone 218 
 
 When Death from some fair face . 313 
 When I knowed him at first there 
 
 was suthin' 397 
 
 When life's troubles g.ither darkly 243 
 When she undid her h.iir at night 185 
 When the day with all its splen- 
 dor 304 
 
 When the frost is on the punkin . 117 
 When the humid shadows hover . 27 
 When the morning fair and sweet 184 
 When the silence of ilie midnight 186 
 When thou art weary of the world, 
 
 and leaning 319 
 
 When we see our dream-ships 
 
 slipping 187 
 
 Where are the flowers ? where the 
 
 leave 
 
 113 
 
 2'7 
 
 Where burns the fireside brightest 
 Where grass grows short and the 
 
 meadows end ...... 100 
 
 Where moss-made beds are bright- 
 est by the river 269 
 
 Whether my heart be glad or no . 208 
 Whichever way the wind doth blow 371 
 While mother is tending baby . . 46 
 While o'er my life still hung the 
 
 morning star 103 
 
 " Who 'II take care of the b.iby ? " n 
 Who shall judge man from his 
 
 manner 263 
 
 Why all this toil for triumphs of an 
 
 hour 383 
 
 Why, Bob, you dear old fellow . . 436 
 
 ■"11 
 
PAGH 
 
 gifts that every 
 
 a8o 
 
 id in the shadow 
 
 . . . . ... 350 
 
 ie darlint, I 'm 
 
 420 
 
 found the model 
 
 399 
 
 I, you're mighty 
 
 t\ 338 
 
 the tempest ? . . 146 
 
 by come for? . . 7.') 
 
 by go for? ... 74 
 
 277 
 
 f man ? A passing 
 
 2S3 
 
 nsh thee fur the 
 
 i6a 
 
 ou don't ! Do you 
 Rh? 394 
 
 leave the old 
 
 ai8 
 
 m some fair face . 313 
 him at first tiiere 
 
 307 
 
 bles gather darkly 343 
 I lier hair at niglit 185 
 ivith all its splen- 
 
 204 
 
 s on the punkin . 117 
 I shadows hover . 27 
 ng fair and sweet 184 
 e of the midnight 186 
 icary of the world, 
 
 3'9 
 
 our dream-ships 
 
 187 
 
 lowers ? where the 
 
 113 
 
 5 fireside brightest 217 
 )ws short and the 
 
 I ItX) 
 
 tie beds are bright- 
 
 !r 3f>9 
 
 irt be glad or no . 2OS 
 
 he wind doth blow 271 
 
 tending baby . . 4^' 
 life still hung the 
 
 103 
 
 are of the baby?" 72 
 je man from his 
 
 263 
 
 for triumphs of an 
 
 283 
 
 dear old fellow . . 43^> 
 
 INDEX OF FIUST LINES. 
 
 459 
 
 Willy and Charley, eight and ten . 
 Wind, and the sound of a sea . . 
 With klingle, Wangle, kiingle . . 
 Worn voyagers, who watch for land 
 Would 1 were lying in a tield of 
 
 clover 212 
 
 Yes, 1 've been a deacon of our 
 
 church 178 
 
 PAGE 
 
 f'4 
 
 24 
 
 205 
 
 iSs 
 
 PAGU 
 
 Yes, stone the woman, let the man 
 
 80 free! 3,^ 
 
 You came to us once, O brothers, 
 
 in wrath ^,f, 
 
 You laugh as you turn ihe yellow 
 
 page ,76 
 
 You see it first near the dusty 
 
 road ,15